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MROSE 

ERIES 


NO. 39 


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Richard Forrest, 

Bachelor 




BY 

CLEMENT R. MARLEY 



/ 



# 

NEW YORK 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers 

25 to 31 Rose Street 


PRIMROSE SERIES. 


Isso.d monthly. By subscription, |6 per year. No. S9. Sept., 1892 
Entered at New York Host-office as second-class matter. 


CHOICE NOVELS 

BY 

The Author of Dr. Jack. 


These novels are copyrighted and can be had only in 
the Criterion Series. Paper, so cents. 

2. Dr. Jack. 

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE. 

3. Dr. Jack’s Wife. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

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BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

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BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

8. Monsieur Bob (new edition). 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

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BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. (new edition). 

1 3. The Nabob of Singapore (new). 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
postage free on receipt of price, by the publishers. 


“Richard Forrest, Bachelor.” 


By CLEMENT R. MARLEY. 



POPULAR COPYRIGHT NOVELS 

BY THE AUTHOR OF “DOCTOR JACK,” 

PUBLISHED BY STREET & SMITH. 

L DOCTOR JACK. 50 cents. 

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FOR SALE EVERYWHERE. 







BY 


/ 


CLEMENT R. MARLEY. 


AUTHOR OF 



NEW YORK: 

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, 

'29 Rose Street* 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1895, 

Bi Street & Smith, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE 

I— The Delmar Sisters 7 

II — “If He Were to Disappoint My Hopes, I believe I 

Would Die!” 18 

III — “ Arthur and I Have Parted !” 23 

IV — “Good-by, Best and Kindest of Sisters.” 31 

V — The Young Widow 40 

VI — A Confidential Talk 55 

VII— “Looks Like Fate.” 65 

VIII— “ I Believe I’m In Love.” 74 

IX — ‘‘I Cannot Marry You.” 81 

X — Making a Promise 87 

XI — Women Are Witches 97 

XII — The Rescue 104 

XIII — Pledging His Word 109 

XIV — Marriage and Death 119 

XV — Arthur’s Harangue 127 

XVI — Miss Cameron, the Magnet ... 134 

XVII — A Golden Future Predicted. 140 

XVIII— Arthur’s Opinion 152 

XIX— Madly In Love 158 

XX — Florine 166 

XXI— “Where Can She Be?” 171 

XXII— Arthur’s Folly 186 

XXIII — “Oh! I Cannot! I Cannot!” 192 

XXIV — “I Cannot Be Your Judge.” 199 

XXV — “You Know I Love You.” 210 

XXVI — A Homily On Matrimony 214 

XXVII— Exonerated 222 

XXVIII— A Living Saint 236 

XXIX— Saved 257 


TO THE 

Honorable Theodore Runyon, 
Ambassador of the United States 
to the German Empire, 
this book is affectionately 
Dedicated. 


“Richard Forrest, Bachelor.” 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DELMAR SISTERS. 

You will not find Wallford on the map, so I advise you 
not to consult it, for some time since a larger town, not 
far from there, after steadily advancing year by year 
toward its smaller neighbor, finally opened its arms and 
took it to itself, endowing it with even its name. It was a 
pretty spot, on the coast of one of the Southern States, 
miles from the noise and din of any big city, and in sum- 
mer more than one worn-out bread-winner found his way 
there for a season of rest and recreation. 

On the outskirts of the village, nearly hidden from the 
road by tall trees, like a bird’s nest among the foliage, 
stood a picturesque cottage. It was by no means a modern 
structure and was sadly in need of a coat of paint, but the 
tiny vine-covered balconies, the wide piazza encircling the 
entire ground floor, and the large, well-kept garden with 
its spaces fenced off for vegetables and chickens, all gave 
the place a home-like, inviting look, which many a more 
pretentious place lacks. The windows were always neatly 
draped with snowy curtains, caught back by fresh ribbons, 
and in two of them yellow canaries, in gilded cages, hopped 
and sang their little lives away. 

An observing passer-by would remark immediately, upon 


8 


THE DELMAR SISTERS. 


glancing in, that there must be a woman living there, for 
the feminine touch in a home is unmistakable. And the 
passer-by would be right, only there were two — the Del- 
mar sisters — and they lived quite alone with a maid-of-all- 
work to wait upon them. 

At the time our story opens, a bleak November day, 
Rose, the elder, was sitting in the cozy room known as the 
library, with a brown and white collie, which lay dozing 
at her feet, for company. She was sewing industriously, 
but every few minutes she would glance up from her work 
to give an order to the servant who was constantly pop- 
ping her capped head in at the door, it must be acknowl- 
edged, somewhat impatiently. 

“No sign of her yet, Nora?” she asked, as the mantel 
clock chimed a pert one — two. 

“No, Miss Rose, ’’was the answer, given in a grieved 
tone, “and I don’t know what to do about her luncheon. 
The milk-toast is almost spoiled. Why, it’s been standing 
this hour!” 

Miss Delmar snipped off a thread with her scissors. 

“Oh, never mind,” she said, good-humoredly, “Miss 
Florence is not over particular, you know. Besides, if she’s 
late, of course, she cannot expect a very good luncheon. 
There, isn’t that pretty?” and she held up a just -finished 
bonnet for the girl’s inspection. 

“Bless my heart and soul, Miss Rose, but it’s areal stun- 
ner!” was the enthusiastic reply. “How lovely Miss Flor- 
ence will look, to be sure! Here she comes now.” 

While she spoke the door opened, and a slim, girlish fig- 
ure, clad in a green cloth riding habit, flew in like a whirl- 
wind, bringing with her the scent of the fresh, crisp air 
outside, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing. 


THE D ELMAR SIbTEBS. 


9 


“I suppose you are dreadfully cross with me, both of 
you, ” she cried, flinging her whip one way and her gloves 
another, “but I couldn’t help being late, I really couldn’t. 
I never had such a glorious ride in all my life. I went 
about fifteen miles. See here now, Nora, what did you save 
for my lunch? Something bang up, I hope, for I’m simply 
starving. Confound it! I’ve pulled the band all off my hat! 
Just my beastly luck, I declare! Mend it, won’t you, Rosie? 
That’s a love, I’m no earthly good with the needle.’’ 

“Certainly, dear, only try not to use quite such strong 
language. You shocked Father Moore last Sunday, I’m 
sure, when you told him you would ‘poney up’ for the fair 
at Christmas time. Remember how provincial most of our 
friends are here. They don’t understand you.’’ 

Florence was about to make a hasty retort, but thinking 
better of it, simply laughed and followed Nora noisily into 
the dining-room. 

No one, on seeing the two girls together, would ever take 
them to be sisters, so dissimilar were they in appearance. 
Rose, who was about twenty-four, was tall, dark-haired, 
and stately, with a splendidly developed figure and eyes of 
so deep a black that at times they looked almost blue. 

Her chief beauty lay in the pure outline of her face and 
the quiet grace with which she carried herself. 

Florence was just the opposite. Blonde and fair, with 
bright color and light eyes which looked at you with the 
expectant, wide-open expression of a babe’s, she charmed 
by reason of her very youth. Her features were by no 
means as perfect as her sister’s and her figure was childish 
even for her eighteen years, but her friends and admirers 
seldom thought of that ; she was agile and as full of life as 
a kitten. She was never in the same mood two hours on a 


10 


THE DELMAR SISTERS. 


stretch, going from laughter to tears, from a fit of the 
pouts to one of overwhelming affection with astonishing 
rapidity. She was a somewhat designing little creature, 
though not particularly clever, for she never failed to lay 
siege to the heart of any stranger worth cultivating who 
came to town, male and female, and rarely met with de- 
feat. Men took to her much more quickly than they did to 
her intelligent elder sister, and with women she had a 
pretty, purring way that generally won them over at once. 

Rose never dreamed of being jealous of her conquests, 
for she adored her sister, and was never so proud and 
happy as when Florence was being made much of by the 
gay city butterflies who sought the refreshing country 
breezes and healthy pine lands of Wallford in summer. 

Vincent Delmar, their father, had died when Florence 
was but ten years old, leaving the entire responsibility of 
her bringing up to Rose, who was just then budding into 
womanhood. Their mother had been dead six years, and 
had left a heart-broken widower to mourn her loss. So 
when the time came for him to follow her, he heaved a 
sigh of relief, and placing the hand of the younger daugh- 
ter into that of the older, he said : 

“Rose, for years you have been a mother to this child, 
henceforth you must be father as well.” 

And she had faithfully fulfilled her trust, doing for the 
girl all that even a parent’s heart could dictate, and lavish- 
ing upon her the whole wealth of her affection besides. 

Mr. Delmar had been a prosperous Louisiana planter of 
good blood and excellent education, who had married a 
young girl of Spanish parentage, as dark as he was fair, 
and who had made him the best of wives. When the war 
broke out, like so many of the Southerners, he firmly be- 


THE DELMAR SISTERS. 


11 


lieved the ultimate defeat of the North was but a question 
of time and had no thought of disaster for himself, and it 
was not until the roof was burned almost over his head 
and his cattle were driven from his own pasture lands that 
he consented at last to fly from the plantation, whose every 
stick and stone were dear to him. Poor and friendless, 
with a bitter hatred toward the North in his heart, he 
finally settled, after long months of wandering, in Wall- 
ford, with his delicate wife and two little girls, there to 
brood over the past and pine himself into an early grave. 

Florence had soon become reconciled to the loss of her 
father (her mother she no longer remembered), and grew 
up without a care or a thought for the morrow, but not so 
Rose. She never forgot that Florence’s futuro lay within 
her keeping, and that no matter how much devotion she 
might show toward her, she could never entirely replace 
the mother-love which is so necessary to guide a young 
life aright. She humored and indulged the child almost to 
the point of spoiling her disposition, and Florence knew 
well that if coaxing failed to cajole her sister into acquies- 
cence in any trifling matter, an artful use of her pocket- 
handkerchief would seldom fail to bring her around. 

Presently the door was flung open again, and Florence 
danced in with a jam-tart in one hand and a glass of milk 
in the other. She stopped short as her eyes fell upon the 
work in her sister’s lap and exclaimed : 

“Oh, Rose, what a lovely bonnet! How clever you are!” 

“Do you like it, dear?” 

“Like it? why, it’s a perfect beauty ! With all that pretty 
gold lace and those darling for-get-me-nots ! Oh, it’s sure 
to be becoming. Blue is my color, you know.” 

“Any color is becoming to you, Florence,” returned the 


12 


THE DELMAR SISTERS. 


elder sister, looking with fond admiration into the bright 
young face beaming with pleasure. “Your complexion is 
perfect.” 

“Flatterer!” exclaimed the other, “you’ll spoil me if you 
don’t take care — you and Dolly. But give it to me, I must 
try it on at once. So it’s finished!” 

And she dropped the tart and milk and ran to the glass 
to look at herself, coquetting with her image there like a 
bird. 

“All but this little knot of ribbon. I’m glad you’re 
pleased with it, but I could have made it prettier if I had 
felt we could spare the money.” 

This last remark was accompanied by a half impercepti- 
ble sigh. 

But the quick ear of Florence caught it, and in a moment 
she was kneeling beside her, with her arms about her neck. 

“Oh, Rose, how mean and contemptible I feel! Here you 
have been slaving all this long time to get me ready to go 
away to enjoy myself and perhaps denying yourself lots of 
things that you really needed. How could you? What I 
had was quite, quite good enough, but you’ve given your- 
self no rest until you’ve turned me out a wardrobe fit for a 
bride. It’s too bad, and I’m positively vexed at you.” 

“Nonsense, dear, I’ve enjoyed sewing for you. It isn’t 
that, it’s only that I wish I could give you all the hand- 
some clothes you need to set you off. It wouldn’t do for 
you to be shabbily dressed, where you’re going. I’ve seen 
enough of Mrs. French and her friends to know that. I 
want to feel that you look just as well as any of them. It 
is my pride.” 

“And so I shall, dearest,” said Florence, “thanks to you 
and Miss Tucker. Sweet simplicity is my style, you know, 


THE DELMAR SISTERS. 


13 


and all my gowns fit me like gloves. Why, I shall be sim- 
ply disgusted if my pink silk isn’t fully described in the 
New York newspapers.” 

‘‘And you’ve all poor mamma’s jewels, ” suggested Rose, 
thoughtfully. 

‘‘Yes, I’ve mamma’s jewels — at least, what there are 
left of them. How foolish she was to part with them ! She 
had such a lot.” 

‘‘But it was necessary, darling, when papa lost his fort- 
une. We might be beggars to-day if she had had any false 
pride about matters of that kind. I often think how hard 
it must have been for them to leave their lovely Southern 
home and settle down in an insignificant little place like 
Wallford, after having enjoyed so much. Mamma suffered 
terribly, too, I know. Many a time I’ve seen her crying, 
when you were a child. I’m sure it killed her, the priva- 
tion and all that ; she was so unused to hardships. Papa 
was different, for although he, too, suffered keenly, he 
never spoke of his troubles. You remember how fast his 
hair turned white, don’t you? Most people thought that it 
was because mamma was an invalid so long, but I feel sure 
he died of a broken heart.” 

“Papa was very rich before the war, w 7 asn’t he, Rose?” 
asked Florence, suddenly. 

“Yes. They say mamma had every possible wish grati- 
fied.” 

Florence heaved a deep-drawn sigh. 

“How I wish,” she began, enviously, “we had lived in 
those days of luxury and plenty, instead of now. Poverty 
is so horrible, so disgraceful— no, no!” she exclaimed, in- 
terrupting herself as she caught the grieved look on the 
other’s face, “pray, pray don’t misunderstand me, dearest, 


14 


THE D ELM AH SINTERS. 


I wouldn’t have you think I am discontented for worlds 
and worlds. You are the best, the kindest of sisters, and 
no one could appreciate you more than I do. I don’t dislike 
‘love in a cottage,’ ” with a forced laugh, “indeed I don’t, 
only when I see the style other people live in and compare 
it with ours — when I see other girls with so much money 
tliat they throw it away, almost, while we have to skimp 
and save, it sometimes drives me nearly out of mind with 
jealousy ! What an existence we lead, anyway, when you 
come to think of it!” she continued, rising to her feet with 
heightened color; “barely able to make two very raggy 
ends meet, while other people, no better than we, are roll- 
ing in wealth. It isn’t just nor fair, and if I ever have the 
chance ” 

“Ah, Florence, the serpent has entered our Eden at last, 
as I feared it would,” interrupted Rose, sadly, laying down 
her sewing. “I’ve been expecting just such an outburst 
ever since your first visit to Mrs. French. That’s one rea- 
son why I hesitated about giving my consent to your going. 
The way she and her ‘set’ live is so different from ours, 
that sooner or later you were bound to be embittered by 
the contrast.” 

“I’m not embittered, sister, you do me injustice.” 

“You will be, though, by and by.” 

“Oh, no, only I repeat, I cannot help thinking, as I drive 
through the park in Dolly’s spick and span turn-outs, how 
well we would grace one. You would be certain to attract 
attention and no doubt marry well, while I, ’’archly, “have 
one great admirer in New York already. Who knows but 
what he might propose if I were properly gotten up?” 

The elder sister’s expression changed to one of absolute 
alarm. 


THE D ELM A 11 SISTERS. 


15 


“I’ve no desire to marry, Florence, ” she said. “My books 
are companions enough for me, and as for you, no one can 
comprehend how I dread the day when you make up your 
mind to leave tne old home — and me.” 

“But why look on the gloomy side, Bose? Isn’t it natural 
to suppose we both may meet our fates some day? You 
wouldn’t have me die an old maid, I hope? There’s no 
scarcity of that article in Wallford. But possibly that’s be- 
cause there is such a limited supply of eligible men here. 
Such a lot of clowns as they are!” 

“There are worse men to be found than those who live in 
Wallford, Florence,” responded Bose, gravely; “our men 
may not have so much elegance of manner or wear the 
same make of hats as the New York swells, perhaps, but I 
venture to say most of them would make better, truer hus- 
bands.” 

“Much you know about it Goosie!” exclaimed Florence, 
with a short laugh, “but you aren’t getting personal, are 
you?” 

“And if I am?” 

“Then I should feel called upon to remark that you are 
foolishly prejudiced, without having the slightest knowl- 
edge of the matter. See here, do you suppose for an instant 
that the men you saw hovering around Dolly last summer 
are specimens of New York manhood? If so, you’re woefully 
misguided. Those were only her hangers-on, the sort of 
creatures one always finds at a summer place, good enough 
to bring you candy and flowers, or to crowd around you at 
a dance. To play off on occasionally, or as faute de mieux. 
But when the right one comes along— piff! You’ve no time 
to waste upon them. You’ve other, larger fish to fry, and 


16 


THE 1) ELM AH SISTERS. 


if they get a smile now and then they’re in great luck, and 
they know it, too.” 

‘‘How did you find out so much?” questioned Rose, smil- 
ingly. 

‘‘Where you never will, my dear, in the world. You 
don’t begin to know the pleasures of life, Rose, shut up 
day after day, as you are, with a lot of stuffy old hooks. 
Come, let us be like other people for a while and enjoy 
ourselves before we grow old and wrinkled like Miss Fer- 
riss.” 

‘‘Miss Ferriss is seventy.” 

“And you’re a hundred,” said Florence, pertly. “Why 
don’t you sell this old shanty, Rose, and let us go to New 
York? I would rather live there in two rooms than occupy 
a palace in this contemptible one-horse village.” 

“You’re talking rashly, Florence. What, sell the place 
where our mother and father lived and died? You have no 
sentiment. I hope to spend my life here. I’m afraid New 
York has turned your head. And now I want to talk seri- 
ously to you, dear, for a moment.” 

“I know what you’re going to say,” replied Florence, 
with a childish pout. “You’re going to lecture me about 
Dolly and tell me not to take her for my model.” 

“Yes, it is about Mrs. French I was going to speak.” 

“Well?” uttered Florence, with a look of forced resig- 
nation. 

“To begin with, you know, darling, I never fancied her 
particularly,” pursued Rose, resuming her sewing, while 
Florence went to the window, half turning her back. 

“I know you’re always unjust tQ her, sister. You don’t 
understand her,” retorted the other. 

“Perhaps not. But I don’t like her ways. She gave me, 


THE D ELMAR SISTERS. 


17 


or any one who chose to, a pretty good opportunity of judg- 
ing her last summer, when she was staying at the Poplars. 
You cannot deny that she set everybody talking, with her 
loud voice, conspicuous gowns, and her crowds of ‘hangers- 
on, ’ as you call them. Besides, we know so little about 
her.” 

“Of course she set the old moss-covered fossils’ tongues 
wagging. Any pretty young widow might, under the same 
circumstances. But there’s no harm in Dolly. And we do 
know she is Judge Chalmer’s niece.” 

“I sincerely trust there is no harm in her, or I shouldn’t 
consent to your visiting her. Sometimes I hardly think you 
are old enough to judge where there is harm and where 
there isn’t, Florence.” 

“I’m eighteen next month.” 

“A green old age! But tell me about the men you meet 
there, the ‘specimens of New York society.’ And while 
you are talking you may run up this hem.” 


la 


“ IF HE WERE TO DISAPPOINT MY HOPES!” 


CHAPTER II. 

“IF HE WERE TO DISAPPOINT MY HOPES, I BELIEVE I WOULD 

die!” 

Florence withdrew her gaze from the leafless trees and 
frost-bitten flower-beds in the garden and threw herself, 
rather gracelessly, into a cushion at her sister’s feet. Then 
she took her needle and thimble out of the sewing basket 
near by and prepared to obey. 

“Proceed,” uttered Rose, as a silence fell between them. 

“Oh, there are any quantity of men,” answered Flor- 
ence, carelessly. “Good, bad, and indifferent. Dolly knows 
heaps, she is so popular and in such demand. My life with 
her is one long, delicious dream,” she ended, rapturously. 

“And who is your special admirer?” 

Florence dropped her eyes demurely. 

“Oh, it wouldn’t do to tell you yet,” she said. “Wait 
until the proper time comes. ” 

“The proper time?” repeated Rose. 

“Yes — until matters have progressed further between 
us.” 

“But surely it wouldn’t do any harm to confide his name 
to me, dear,” urged the elder sister, steadily. 

“Perhaps not, after all,” responded Florence, reflective- 
ly. “Where are the scissors? His name is Eldridge— Arthur 
Eldridge.” 

Another pause. 

“And you think he cares for you?” asked Rose. 

“Dolly says she never saw a man so infatuated in her 
life,” answered Florence, promptly, with a touch of van- 
ity. 


“IF EE WERE TO DISAPPOINT MY HOPES T 19 

“Do you know whether he is a Catholic?” 

“Really, I haven’t the least idea in the world,” re- 
sponded Florence, with a laugh. “We haven’t had time to 
discuss religion yet. Why, shouldn’t you favor him if he 
weren’t?” 

“I should hate to see you married to a Protestant,” ut- 
tered Rose, bending lower over her work. 

Florence flushed a little, angrily. 

“How very bigoted you are!” she exclaimed, with some 
annoyance. “No one pays any attention to those matters 
nowadays, Rose. To tell the truth, I don’t believe Arthur 
ever thinks of church.” 

“I sincerely hope he isn’t a member of any, if he’s not a 
Romanist, for in that case you might bring your influence 
to bear afterward.” 

“Yes, perhaps I could, ” assented Florence, rather doubt- 
fully, “but just at present it wouldn’t be becoming in me 
to interfere with his opinions in that respect.” 

“On the other hand, though,” remarked Rose, pensively, 
“he may try to turn you afterward if he’s a Protestant. I 
wish you knew what religion, if any, he does profess. I’ve 
a horror of mixed marriages.” 

“Oh, bother!” uttered Florence, with a gesture which 
showed plainly the conversation was distasteful to her ; 
“don’t let’s get on this subject, Rose; we’ll argue all the 
afternoon. Who said I was going to marry him? You’re 
the dearest, sweetest little woman in creation, but I do 
wish you weren’t so lamentably old-fashioned. Dolly said 
once you ought to have lived a thousand years ago — that 
you put her in mind of a saint, in an old painting.” 

“That’s where Dolly and I differ, ” remarked Rose. “She 


20 


“IF HE WERE TO DISAPPOINT MY HOPES!' 


puts me in mind of a lovely bit of Dresden china made only 
to admire.” 

“I don’t believe she would object to the comparison,” 
returned Florence. ‘‘Arthur says she is well-named.” 

‘‘And you,” said Rose, ‘‘are you sure you could love Mr. 
Eldridge?” 

‘‘Love him?” repeated Florence. ‘‘Pshaw, Rose! I may 
as well confess — just wait until he asks me outright to 
marry him, and you’ll see how long it will take me to say 
yes. Why, he’s a splendid match; spends heaps and stacks 
of money, and is so handsome, entirely lovable, in fact. 
How fine it will be if I am ever Mrs. Eldridge! We’ll be so 
happy, you and I. You shall have the best rooms in the 
house and a brougham, all your own. There will be no 
more old gowns made over. Not much! I will become a 
regular society woman. As for you ” 

She stopped short, checked by the expression on her sis- 
ter’s face. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” she asked. 

“Nothing, dear,” responded Rose, “only I cannot bear 
to hear you go on so. It sounds so worldly, so different 
from the way my little Florence would have talked a year 
ago. And as for this man,” she continued, with glowing 
eyes, “what do you really know about him? You say he 
is lavish with his wealth, but how does he spend it? What 
is his inside life? What are his habits? You don’t know, 
you cannot know anything but what he chooses that you 
may. Oh, Florence, reflect before it is too late, I implore 
you. Don’t be caught by the false glitter which may bring 
you to misery and wretchedness in the end. I can warn 
you, plead with you now, but if you refuse to listen to me 
there may come a time when I can help you no more. You 


21 


“IF HR WERE TO DISAPPOINT MY HOPES!” 

must take care of yourself when you are out of my 
sight.” 

Florence’s face altered, while her sister was speaking. 
Her look of surprise changed first to amazement and then 
to almost indignation. She drew herself up, and when she 
spoke again her tone was very frigid. 

“Sister, I am perfectly astonished at you,” she said. 
“You talk to me as though I were an imbecile! I ask you, 
what do you know about Arthur that you should go off on 
such a tirade? Or what do you suspect? You say I have 
no sentiment. Perhaps you are right, but I trust I have 
common sense enough to keep me out of harm. As for 
Arthur Eldridge, you force me into admitting to you that 
my whole heart is bound up in him and were he to disap- 
point my hopes, I believe I should die.” 

And with these words she started to leave the room 
haughtily, when a low sob fell upon her ear. In a moment 
her mood changed, and she flew to her sister. 

“Oh, dearest,” she cried, “do forgive me! I know you 
meant it for my good and only spoke out of affection for 
me, but I was provoked. There, I’ll kiss all the tears away 
and promise never to be so nasty again. I have no senti- 
ment and less sense, and I'm selfish, too, into the bargain. 
Don’t contradict me, for it’s true. Oh, dear, now don’t cry 
any more, for if you do, I shall have to join in!” 

Rose dried her eyes and then looked up at Florence in a 
strange, wistful way. 

“I’ve nothing to forgive, dear!” she replied, “only it 
hurts me to have you misunderstand what I say. It’s far 
from my intention to lecture you, and of course I have 
every confidence in you. But you are young and might 
make a grievous mistake and only think what it would 


22 “IF HE WERE TO DISAPPOINT MY HOPES /” 

mean if you were to marry badly. Consider bow I should 
suffer, Florence. You must not be so headstrong. I don’t 
pretend to tell you what you shall or shall not do — I can- 
not take that responsibility upon myself. I am forced to 
trust you to do whafc you believe to be for your own best 
interests alone — helping you a little if I can. I only beg of 
you to be prudent and to consider well before you take any 
important step. And if you feel the need of my aid or 
counsel at any time while you are away telegraph me, and 
I will be with you in a few hours’ time. But whatever you 
do, darling, remember that your sister loves you as no one 
else in the world ever can, and that she would die to spare 
you pain.” 

Two soft, white arms crept about the elder girl’s neck, 
and two rosy lips sought hers. 

“I shall act precisely as though you were with me all the 
time I am away,” was the earnest response, “and no nun 
could be more circumspect than I shall be— I shall be 
‘prunes and prisms’ to every man I meet, and as for Ar- 
thur,” with a roguish wink, “I shall tell him plainly when 
he begins to chatter ‘sweet nothings’ to me again that he 
must beard the lioness in her den, and that unless he can 
insinuate himself into the good graces of Miss Rose Delmar 
his hopes concerning myself are vain. And now come up 
to my room and I’ll show you the photograph of your in- 
tended brother-in-law. He gave it to me the last time I 
was at Dolly’s.” 


“ARTHUR AMD I HAVE PARTED t 


23 


CHAPTER m. 

“ARTHUR AND I HAVE PARTED !” 

Two days later, when Florence and her trunks had been 
carefully stowed away in the stage-coach which was to 
take her to the place where she could take the train bound 
for New York, a feeling of deep depression took possession 
of Rose. 

She leaned back on the clumsily cushioned back of 
the old hack which had taken them to the station and 
sighed. 

Snow had fallen during the night, but it had turned into 
a fine, soaking rain. The rude country road was a mass of 
slush and mud, through which the old horse had difficulty 
to make his way. On either side stretched meadows cov- 
ered with a mantle of unbroken white, except where the 
low, wooden fences divided one farmer’s property from an- 
other’s. 

“It is forlorn enough,” she murmured, “there is no 
doubt of that, “and I can’t blame Florence for tiring of it 
all. She is so bright and gay it’s hut natural she should 
wish to go where she is appreciated, and she's so unlike 
any of these. How dull I shall he without her, but it would 
he selfish of me to let her know how sorely I shall miss 
her.” 

A long letter came the next evening, full of Florence’s 
plans and engagements. She and Dolly were going to a 
hall that night and to a dinner and theater party the next. 
Dolly was as charming as ever, and Arthur had already 
called. Her happiness, however, was not complete, she do- 


21 


“ARTHUR AND I HAVE PARTED !' 


dared, nor would it be, until she was settled in a home of 
her own and her darling Rose was with her. 

More letters followed, all written in about the same 
strain, and with Arthur’s name on every page. 

“He is so devoted,” she wrote, “I know you will wonder 
how your silly little sister ever managed to capture such a 
prize.” 

These effusions were the brightest spots in Rose Delmar ’s 
monotonous life while Florence was away, and she re-read 
each one every night until the next arrived. 

Her own were long, loving epistles, giving the little inci- 
dents of every-day life at Wallford, and invariably ending 
up with the injunction for Florence to stay as long as she 
liked, for she was getting along famously without her. 

One evening, when Florence had been gone a little over 
three weeks, a carriage stopped at the door. Rose was feed- 
ing one of her canaries at the window when it drove up. 
To her utter astonishment, she saw Florence alight from 
it, pay the driver, and enter the house. 

Delighted beyond measure (for she did not expect her 
back for two weeks yet), she dropped the bit of celery with 
which she was trying to coax the wary Dickie onto her fin- 
ger and ran to the front door before Nora could possibly 
reach it. 

She fairly dragged Florence into the hall and was about 
to smother her with kisses when she started back. 

“Why, my darling,” she cried, “what is the matter? 
Are you ill?” 

“Oh, no, indeed; I’m all right. I got lonely, and sol 
came home, that’s all, ” answered the young girl, with 
quivering lips. 

Then, as her sister laid her arm about her and looked 


“ARTHUR AND 1 HAVE PARTED 


25 


searchingly into her face, she turned away, shuddered from 
head to foot, and suddenly hurst into tears. 

“Oh, Rose,” she sobbed, throwing herself wildly into 
her sister’s embrace, “it’s all over!” 

“What is over, dearest?” asked Rose, tenderly drawing 
her head to her bosom. “There now, calm yourself.” 

“Everything in life — for me. I shall never see Arthur 
again.” 

“Tell me all about it, dear, if you can, ’’said Rose, sooth- 
ingly. “Perhaps it may not be so bad as you think. Did 
you quarrel? Come into the library where it is warmer.” 

“Yes — no — I don’t know,” was the almost inaudible re- 
ply- 

“You are all unstrung, and had better not exert yourself 
to talk just yet,” suggested Rose. “Lie -down on the sofa 
for a few minutes, while I make you a cup of nice tea.” 

But the girl made a gesture of dissent. Then controlling 
herself by an effort, she rose slowly and supported herself 
by the back of a chair. 

“I cannot rest!” she responded, wearily, “and I must tell 
you about it, sister, or my heart w T ill burst. Arthur and I 
have parted. ’ ’ 

“Parted?” murmured Rose. “Incredible! Why, your let- 
ters ” 

“Yes,” returned Florence, sobbing seriously, “we have 
parted forever!'’ 

“How did it happen?” 

“Oh, it was his fault — and he was brutal, ” continued 
Florence, burying her tear-stained face in her sister’s lap. 
“I never can forgive him for making me so miserable, 
never!” 

“Nor I,” said Rose, quietly. 


26 


“ARTHUR AND I HAVE PARTED !” 


“You see,’’ she went on, taking Rose’s hand in both of 
hers and pressing the fingers convulsively, “it happened 
this way: We, Dolly and I, were going to a dinner given 
by a friend of hers, and Arthur was to take us. Well, 
about five o’clock I got a note from him, saying he could 
not go.” 

“But surely that was not so terrible, ” said Rose, con- 
templatively. 

“No, not the fact itself, but his note — that was the cruel 
part of it; it was simply beastly.” 

“What did it say?” 

“I’ve saved it on purpose to show you. There it is, in 
the bag; find it for yourself, please.” 

Rose picked up the satchel Florence had dropped when 
she came in, opened it, and took out a bit of crumpled let- 
ter-paper. With many misgivings, she unfolded it and 
read: 

“Dear Miss Delmar: — “I regret that I shall not see you 
this evening, as I am leaving town to-day. I have written 
Mrs. Van Note to fill my place at the table if she can, and 
I trust you and Mrs. French may reach there safely with- 
out my escort. I fear I shall not be able to call again while 
you are in New York, but I feel sure you will not miss me. 
Wishing you all good luck, both present and future, I am, 
“Yours, etc., 

“Arthur Le T. Eldridge. 

“University Club. Tuesday.” 

“Cool enough, isn’t it, for one who is supposed to adore 
you?” suggested Florence, with the shadow of a smile. 
“Now do you believe he ever cares to see me again?” 

“Something went wrong,” uttered Rose, thoughtfully. 
“What did you do that might have angered him?” 

“Not a blessed thing!” retorted Florence, disgustedly, 


“ARTHUR AND I HAVE PARTED !' 


27 


her grief giving place to anger. “He is a fool, and I hate 
him!” 

“But there must have been something,” said Rose again. 

“I tell you there wasn’t,” persisted Florence, doggedly. 

“No quarrel, no jealousy?” asked Rose. “Think!” 

Florence shook her head. 

“Was there no one else?” 

“Not a single soul. I don’t know any more about what 
got into him than that dog does.” 

“You must see him again, then, dear,” said Rose, after 
a pause. “We must try to arrange ” 

“Never! so long as I live,” cried Florence, with spirit. 
“He’d think I was pining to make up, which I’m not.” 

“That’s right,” said Rose, approvingly. “He’s notvrorth 
a thought, still ” 

She might have added, “I told you so,” but Rose was 
not of that sort. 

“But all the same I’m wretched,” uttered Florence, sob- 
bing afresh. 

Rose hesitated, before she spoke again, for a struggle 
was going on within her breast. What should she do? 
Should she encourage Florence to think as well as possible 
of her lover and try to patch up the difference (which she 
could not believe very serious, as yet) between them? Or 
should she nurse her present harsh feelings toward him, 
until they had drifted irreparably apart? 

If she chose the first course, she was almost certain to 
lose Florence to him sooner or later, and in the second, she 
might be able to keep her sister w T ith her always. 

Her heart beat quickly as she thought of this. It meant 
so much to her! Florence’s sweet companionship in future, 


28 “ARTHUR AND I HAVE FARTED !" 

in one case, unbounded loneliness for herself in the 
other. 

The temptation was great. At length she said : 

“I cannot tell you just what I would do in your place 
yet, Florence; it’s too serious a matter to be decided light- 
ly, and I can see it concerns your happiness very deeply. 
We will discuss it again when you are calmer, and mean- 
while let us forget all about it if we can. You’re nervous 
and excited now, and I am hardly myself. When we’re 
both in the right mood we will try to find out just what is 
the best thing to do.” 

Florence tacitly agreed, as she generally did when her 
sister’s stronger influence was brought to bear directly 
upon her, and before long, to Hose’s contentment, she found 
herself chatting volubly about the good times she had had 
at Dolly’s. 

The next morning, although they retired early, Florence 
remained in bed until nearly ten o’clock, and Rose, who 
would not have disturbed her had she chosen to sleep until 
noon, brought her breakfast up to her. 

Then she dressed leisurely, saying little, and calling the 
dog, went for a walk alone. She returned with two or three 
letters sticking out of her jacket-pocket, none of which she 
volunteered to show to Rose, however, and Rose asked no 
questions. The next day was a repetition of the first, and 
so a week passed. 

Rose, who tried to be doubly cheerful as she saw her 
sister’s depression, which the latter took no pains to con- 
ceal (weak natures are usually selfish natures as welD, 
waited patiently for her to again broach the subject near- 
est both their hearts, but in vain. Florence would not per- 
mit even the slightest.allusions to it, and once, when Rose 


•• ARTHUR AED I HAVE PARTED !' 


29 


mentioned Mr. Eldridge’s name, she left the room without 
replying. So Rose held her peace, though she thought of 
little else. 

Another long week dragged itself into the past — seven 
days of torture to Rose’s loving heart, and to listless un- 
happiness to the other. 

Florence would sit quietly at the window, for hours, in 
her favorite low chair, pretending to read or do some trifling 
fancy work, but three-quarters of the time she would be 
lost in thought. 

Rose watched her narrowly, longing, hoping for the con- 
fidence which was not forthcoming. 

“She must speak soon, ’’ she argued to herself, as she 
tossed on her sleepless bed, “and then what shall I say to 
her? I am divided between pity for her and my own selfish- 
ness. If I only dared speak to Father Moore and get his ad- 
vice — but it would be unfair to her. It must be hard 
for the poor child; if I could only endure it in her 
stead!” 

After the first outbreak Florence showed no more weak- 
ness. She went around the house as noiselessly as a mouse, 
and more than once Rose caught her coming out of her 
room with suspiciously red eyelids, but considerately re- 
frained from letting her see that she noticed it. 

She racked her brain daily to find out what she could do 
to help her sister, but gave up in despair, as nothing sug- 
gested itself. It was evident that she was suffering; but it 
was plain, also, that she did not desire sympathy even 
from her, and so, although her heart ached for her, Rose 
was silent. 

Letters came to her almost daily, but Rose was satisfied 
from her face that never a line came from him, and from 


30 


“ ARTHUR AND I HAVE PARTED !' 


whom they did come, she had too much delicacy, to in- 
quire. 

“She’ll throw herself into my arms and beg me to com- 
fort her, before very long,” she said, to herself. “This un- 
natural silence cannot last ; it is so unlike my confiding lit- 
tle Florence. But until that time comes I shall not disturb 
her. She may be trying to forget him in her own way. 
Foolish girl, if she would only trust me, how much easier 
it would be for both of us. ” 


“ GOOD-BY , BEST AND KINDEST Ob SISTERS. 


1 


CHAPTER IV. 

“good-by, best and kindest of sisters.” 

One night, when Florence had appeared duller and more 
silent than ever she declared her intention of going to her 
room early. She had scarcely touched her supper, although 
Nora, like her mistress, had lately been bending every 
effort to tempt her appetite. 

“It heats all what do ail Miss Florence,” she complained 
to her admirer, Mr. Robert Veale, the butcher, “she don’t 
eat nothing I cook and is like a ghost around. It’s my hum- 
ble opinion something is gone wrong. ” 

And she shook her head with all her ten years’ experi- 
ence in the Delmar household. 

Rose suggested sitting with her a little while before go- 
ing to bed, but Florence declined the offer, saying she 
wished to retire at once, and kissing her with unusual 
affection she quietly closed and locked her door. 

With a sigh, Rose entered her own chamber and slowly 
undressed. She could hear Florence moving around for 
some time and was half tempted to force her to let her in 
and make her talk— anything to rouse her out of this hor- 
rible apathy which was fast becoming unbearable. But 
again she restrained herself. 

It was long before sleep visited her eyelids that night. 
She threw on a wrapper and made herself comfortable in a 
big arm-chair in front of the fire with a couple of books be- 
side her on the table. 

A great reader, she gradually became so absorbed in one 
of them that she was not reminded of the fleeting hours 


32 “ GOOD-BY \ BEST AND KINDEST OF SISTERS.” 

until the village clock tolled one. Then she tossed it aside 
and got into bed. 

She fell into a doze almost immediately, but awoke pres- 
ently to find the tears rolling down her face and a lump in 
her throat. 

Such a wretched nightmare as she had had ! She dreamed 
she had seen Florence dead and lying in her coffin, with 
her arms full of flowers. Her hair hanging round her like 
a golden shroud and her eyelids wide open. 

She herself was bending over her, endeavoring to close 
the lovely, staring eyes, when suddenly the cold lips parted 
and she spoke. 

“Leave me alone,” she whispered, hoarsely, “I want to 
see where I am going, and if you shut my eyes how can I?” 

She drew back with a cry of terror and awoke. 

The fire had gone out, and a few pale moonbeams 
streamed across the carpet. 

Half dazed and trembling from head to foot, she sprang 
to the floor, struck a light, and looked at the clock. 

It was on the point of striking two. 

She was about to return to her bed again when a sudden 
thought entered her head. 

What if Florence were really ill? It was possible she 
might have called to her not quite loudly enough to awake 
her, but enough so to have caused the hideous vision she 
had just seen. She could not rest until she had found out. 
So, candle in hand, she started down the hall. Stopping at 
Florence’s door, she listened a moment, but hearing no 
sound within, she noiselessly turned the knob and entered. 

The chamber was in total darkness except for the light 
that struggled in through the half-closed shutters, and all 
was as still as death. 


33 


“ QOOD-BY , BEST AM) KINDEST OF SISTERS.” 

Rose shaded with her hand the candle which was casting 
weird, flickering shadows upon the floor and looked toward 
the bed. To her horror she discovered it w T as empty. It 
had not been disturbed that night. 

“Florence, Florence!” she cried, faint with the apprehen- 
sion of she knew not what. 

But there was no sound except the wind, which moaned 
dismally as it swept through the bare, skeleton-like trees 
outside the window. 

Scarcely believing her eyes, she rubbed them and ap- 
proached the bed and felt of it. It was quite cold. 

She then lighted the lamp, and as it flared up she discov- 
ered that there was a note on the mantel addressed to her- 
self. 

With bated breath, she tore it open and read: 

“9 P. M. 

“Dearest Rose: — Forgive me, but lean bear it no longer. 
This quiet life is slowly killing me; it gives me so much 
time to think ! 

“I am going away, but not to him, and it will be useless 
for you to attempt to follow me. If I were like you I might 
fight it out and seek consolation in religion, but I cannot 
put my mind to anything. 

“Good-by, best and kindest of sisters. Think of me and 
pray for me. Florence. ” 

The letter fell from her nerveless fingers and fluttered to 
her feet, where it lay, face up. 

“Florence,” she gasped, with colorless lips, “what can 
this mean? Am I awake or asleep? Gone away from me? 
Oh, it cannot, cannot be true ! The strain has turned her 
poor brain or mine — where can she be? Who has taken her 
from me? I must follow her, bring her back at any cost. 
My poor little sister, my heart-broken darling ! If she had 


34 “ GOOD-BY , BEST AND KINDEST OF SISTERS.” 

only confided in me ! What a fatal mistake, that I did not 
urge her. And now she has gone ! What can I do? I must 
go after her at once, hut where shall I search? This was 
written at nine o’clock, and it is now two — five hours ago ! 
She may he miles away by this time. Oh, Florence, how 
could you be so cruel as to leave me alone? What am I to 
do? How can I bear it?’* 

And overcome by the violence of her emotion, she sank 
to the floor. 

In this state, Nora, aroused from her slumbers by the 
strange sounds underneath her, discovered her, and with 
difficulty persuaded her to return to her bed. 

For the next few days nobody was admitted to the Del- 
mar cottage, not even Mr. Veale, who considered that his 
services, above those of all others, were indispensable to 
the household. He would rap, rap on the gate, with such 
assurance that finally, on the fourth morning, an upper 
window was opened, and the neat cap and rosy cheeks of 
Nora, two shades brighter in hue than usual, owing to her 
excitement, appeared. She lost no time, either, in launch- 
ing forth her opinion of tradespeople generally who try to 
“poke their noses where it was plain to be seen they were 
not welcome, ” and of him in particular, ending up with 
the stupefying query as to who he thought he was, so all- 
iniportant, that he must break decent people’s doors down, 
trying to force an entrance? When anj^thing in his line or 
anybody else’s was needed, she believed che was fully capa- 
ble of procuring it without such goings on. After which 
the window closed with a bang, and the crestfallen butcher 
“returned to his muttons” a sadder if not a wiser man. 

There was one person, however, who, after several pa- 
tient, repeated efforts, managed to gain admittance to the 


“GOOD-BY, BEST AMD KINDEST SISTER .” 35 

house, and that was Father Moore, the village priest. Day 
after day the venerable man called, only to be informed 
that “Miss Delmarwas too ill to see anybody. ” But at last, 
one bitterly cold morning, touched by his devoted persist- 
ence, the inexorable Nora opened the door wide enough to 
let him in and showed him into the room where Rose was 
sitting. 

He drew r back in astonishment and dismay. Could this 
pale, haggard creature be the splendid specimen of woman- 
hood he had seen only the week before? 

She held out her hand to him, but scarcely lifted her 
eyes to his face. 

“You have been ill, they tell me, my child, ” he said, 
kindly. 

“Yes,” she replied, almost inaudibly. 

“I am sorry. But your sister, why is she not with you?” 
he continued, glancing around the room. 

“She has left me,” answered Rose. 

“Left you!” echoed the priest. 

“Yes, forever — of her own free will, Father.” 

“I do not understand,” he faltered. 

“It is quite simple. She has become tired of everything 
here and has gone away.” 

The good man, who was much attached to the two young 
sisters, was completely dumfounded, and he showed it. 
He uncrossed his knees, changed his position, and then 
grasped his hat more firmly by its broad brim. He was not 
given to questioning, generally, but curiosity got the bet- 
ter of him on this occasion, as it sometimes will with even 
the best of people, and moreover, his was not idle curios- 
ity. 

“Would you mind, ” he began, almost timidly; “notice, 


36 “GOOD-BY, BEST AND KINDEST SISTER.” 

now, I say would you mind, telling me what caused this 
unfortunate estrangement, Miss Rose? If you would I shall 
not press you to confide in me.” 

‘‘It pains me to speak of it, Father.” 

“It may comfort you in this case.” 

No answer. 

“It may ease your mind, my daughter, to let me know 
just what your trouble is, I have known you so long and 
so well,” urged Father Moore again. 

“If I cannot trust you, then there is no one in the world 
whom I can,” she uttered, wearily. “So I will tell you in 
what sorrow I am.” 

And she related so much as she thought best of what had 
passed between her sister and herself, dwelling with piti- 
ful intensity upon the state of her feelings at discovering 
Florence’s flight from home. 

When she had finished, the priest sat silent for a while, 
his head bowed on his breast. He could scarcely find words 
to express the sympathy which was welling up in his heart 
for her, and yet he was constantly called upon to perform 
just such offices. This time, however, it was more than an 
ordinary duty. He could not have felt more pity for Rose 
had she been in truth his own daughter. The future looked 
black and hopeless enough for her, yet lie must not allow 
her to despair. He scarcely knew how to begin. 

“My child,” he said, gently, taking her hand, “the Lord 
sends us hard trials to bear, but rest assured He will com- 
fort you in His own way.” 

Instantly her manner changed. The crimson blood suf- 
fused her pale cheeks, and she sprang to her feet, her eyes 
dilating. 

“Stop, Father!” she cried, peremptorily, “I will not 


“GOOD-BY, BEST AND KINDEST SISTER.” 37 

listen to you. The suffering I have just endured and am 
enduring has changed all my ideas. I do not believe in the 
mercy of a Being who punishes His innocent creatures 
without cause. How have I deserved this? Have I neglected 
any of my duties toward the church? Have I failed in my 
devotion toward her? You know my whole life has been 
wrapped up in her and yet I am visited w T ith a sorrow like 
this. Oh, it is cruel — too horribly unjust, and I cannot, 
cannot endure it!” 

And she broke into a flood of passionate tears which 
caused the priest to gaze at her in consternation. 

“My daughter remember the teachings of your child- 
hood. Are you about to undo the good of all these years?” 
he uttered, with grave reproof. 

“Remember!” she echoed. “What else have I done but 
remember during the long days and nights she has been 
gone? Father, I have thought it all out, believe me, and 
tried to reason with myself, but I feel as though every im- 
pulse within me, for good or evil, was frozen up.” 

“ ‘Whom the Lord lovetli He chasteneth, ’” murmured 
the old man, solemnly. 

“ ‘Chasteneth,’ yes, that is not bej^ond my comprehen- 
sion,” she responded, with bitter emphasis. “But, Father, 
my heart is broken as truly as ever a human being’s was, 
and I have nothing left to live for. I could have borne any- 
thing, everything but this.” 

“May you not be making too serious a matter of it?” sug- 
gested Father Moore, hopefully. “She may return. ” 

“Never, or she would not have gone. You do not, cannot 
understand the affection that existed between us. The 
strain which made her snap the bond must have been 
severe indeed. My poor, innocent lamb, what does she 


38 “GOOD-BY, BEST AND KINDEST SISTER .” 

know of this wicked world? Think of it, Father, she went 
away with scarcely a dollar in her purse. Where is she? 
What has become of her? Is she cold or hungry? These are 
the questions which torture my brain every hour in the 
day.” 

‘‘It is indeed a cross to hear, my child, but you must not 
rebel,” said the priest. “Your faith — -” 

“I have no longer any faith; I do not care whether I live 
or die or what becomes of me.” 

“You are excited, Rose, and do not comprehend the awful 
nature of your remarks, ” rejoined the old man, sorrow- 
fully, rising. “I will leave you for the present and return. ’ ’ 

“As you please, Father, but you cannot persuade me to 
look upon this as other than a horrible, undeserved afflic- 
tion, nor can all your Veil-meant rebukes impress me as 
they once could. I am a different woman, and I have lost 
my faith. Don’t mistake me, though,” she went on, more 
calmly. “I know you are good and true— a saint on earth, 
if there ever was one, and that you are only endeavoring 
to aid me in your own kind way, but what can you know 
of grief— you, whose duty it is to soothe and comfort— you, 
who have no earthly joys or sorrows, whose whole life is 
one of submission and obedience? I am a common mortal 
with all the faults and weaknesses of my kind, and I can- 
not submit uncomplainingly. Consider, if you must, that I 
have been tried and found wanting, but I warn you, do not 
try to reclaim me, for it will be a thankless task, and you 
will only succeed in exasperating me. Hereafter I shall 
have neither love nor charity in my heart for anybody, and 
I wish to be left alone, that is all.” 

Grieved to the heart, the good man took his departure, 
brooding deeply over the calamity which had befallen a 


“GOOD-BY, BEST AND KINDEST SISTER." 39 

household well beloved by him. His mild nature and un- 
worldly thoughts could not grasp the situation fully, and 
he only realized that he had a task before him which 
might tax his powers to the utmost, but never for an in- 
stant did he doubt his ability, with the help of a higher 
power, to succeed in the end. The fact that Rose might 
have been speaking from actual conviction never entered 
his head, and he firmly believed that in time, when the 
keenness of the blow had worn off, she would listen to rea- 
son and his teachings as willingly as ever. 

“All will yet come right,” he soliloquized, as he made 
his way down the graveled path to the gate; it must, with 
courage and patience on my part, but it is shocking to hear 
this girl, who devoted herself so entirely to her religion a 
short month ago, and who was a bright and shining light in 
the church, express such sentiments. Her sorrow has 
turned her brain. God grant that this affliction may not 
prove beyond her strength to bear and so prove a curse in- 
stead of a blessing.” 

And with bowed head and thoughtful mien, he turned 
down the hard, frozen road which led to his house. 


40 


TEE YOUNG WIDOW 


CHAPTER V. 

THE YOUNG WIDOW. 

Mrs. French’s flat was a very attractive little place, her 
“pill-box,” she called it, but it resembled much more a 
bon-bon box, with its costly trifles and dainty nothings. 

The lady herself was an artist in a harum-scarum kind 
of way ; that is to say, she knew at a glance when a thing 
was expensive and whether it was worth its price, and if it 
took her fancy, she tried to put herself in possession of it 
without any more delay than was absolutely necessary. 
She had been “around” a great deal and always kept her 
bright eyes open, so the consequence was she had fitted up 
her apartments in better taste than ninety-nine women out 
of a hundred, with twice her income, might have done. 
All her furniture harmonized (although probably each 
chair in her drawing-room had been bargained for sepa- 
rately), and nothing in particular struck the eye on enter- 
ing. There was quite enough to keep you interested, and a 
person who had a fondness for “trumpery,” as Mrs. French 
called it, would have passed a far from tedious ten min- 
utes while waiting for the owner of it all to appear. But 
when she did appear, from that moment your attention 
was riveted upon her. She seemed a part of the room. She 
was dainty, smiling, and effusive, always faultlessly 
gowned, never ruffled in temper, she apparently lived only 
to please. She was a firm believer in first impressions, w T as 
Dolly, and therefore she strove always to be cordial. She 
never snubbed anybody, not even a book agent or a tax col- 
lector, and she held out her hand so frankly and prettily 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


41 


in greeting that you could not help wondering whether 
Mrs. Brown was not a tiny bit jealous when she made 
harsh remarks about her. Her dresses and turn-outs were 
all in keeping with her apartments, and her smart little 
gray cobs, with their heavy, gold-mounted harness, always 
attracted attention on the avenue, especially when she 
handled the lines herself. Her acquaintances were many, 
and her admirers legion. She lived like a pet kitten in its 
downy basket, and had no end of people to amuse her. So 
she purred and frolicked all day long in the sunshine, and 
if she happened to scratch occasionally, why, nobody 
minded very much, for Dolly was such excellent company, 
one could not afford to be cross with her for long. 

But Dolly had not always been so happy. No, indeed. 
She well remembered the time when she was glad to get 
two gowns a season and when she actually wore cleaned 
gloves. The light laughter that filled her rooms now was 
never heard then, and she, who thought no more at pres- 
ent of breaking an important engagement than she did of 
changing her slippers, had more than once felt the weight 
of a cane on her white shoulders, but that was when her 
late lamented husband was alive. 

John Peter French had married, at sixty-five, his seven- 
teen-year-old amanuensis. Feeble and rheumatic, he be- 
lieved, as many a deluded old gentleman has, that by so 
doing, he would win a beautiful wife and a tender nurse to 
comfort his declining years. But he quickly discovered his 
folly, for upon seeing herself for the first time in pretty 
gowns, Mrs. French made up her mind that her time would 
be better spent in admiring herself and being admired than 
in looking after the wants and needs of an invalid husband, 
who was totally uninteresting to her. 


42 THE YOUNG WIDOW. 

He fretted and fumed at her neglect of him, but she only 
laughed in his face. 

He grew insanely jealous of her and seldom permitted 
her to leave the house alone. So she passed most of the day 
shut up in her own room, devouring novels. She found out 
that her husband was far from generous, and although 
they occupied a large brown-stone house on Fifth avenue, 
he compelled her to live very frugally. Two servants were 
all he would allow her to keep, and he flew into a rage 
when she suggested horses. 

“But I thought you were rich,’’ she remarked, pettishly, 
one evening after dinner, as she poured out his drops. 

“Did you?” he ejaculated, “and that’s why you married 
me, no doubt.” 

“No,” she returned, sweetly, bringing him the glass. “1 
married you for your handsome face.” 

He darted a look of fury at her, and hastily gulping 
down the medicine, left the room. 

Matters did not mend with the couple as the months 
rolled by. Dolly’s conduct toward her husband did not im- 
prove, and he grew more impatient and abusive as his 
health declined. He became so helpless at last that he could 
not walk without the aid of a stick, and whenever he con- 
sidered her manner too unbearable, he did not hesitate to 
let her feel the weight of it wherever it happened to 
fall. 

After two years of wedded bliss he died, and, much to 
her joy and amazement, his widow found herself sole heir 
to all his possessions. 

All at once her grief became overwhelming. She en- 
veloped herself in the heaviest crape and never spoke of 
her late husband without burying her face in her black- 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


43 


bordered handkerchief. She shut herself up for two whole 
weeks and refused to see any one except her lawyer. 

But when she did begin to show herself again the first 
move she made was to establish herself in quarters more 
to her liking. The big barn-like mansion gave her the 
“creeps,” she declared, so a new flat, with all the modern 
conveniences was selected, and here she took up her abode, 
with a household consisting of a French cook, a maid, and 
a butler, to say nothing of an English coachman and a tiny 
footman, resplendent in buff and blue liveries. As soon as 
she could do so with decency, she left off her mourning and 
gradually gave herself up solely to enjoyment, determining 
to make up for all her lost time. 

How different her new life was from the old ! It was in 
her power now to have almost every whim gratified, and 
the weeks flew by on golden wings. Balls, receptions, and 
dinners followed each other in bewildering succession, and 
she was courted, feted , and admired to her heart’s con- 
tent. 

It is true that there were certain people w r ho were sur- 
prised at the rapidity with which she had forgotten her 
husband, and these did not hesitate to express their opin- 
ions, at times, rather forcibly. But she merely frowned and 
laughed when told what they said and went her way as 
merrily as ever. 

What difference did their likes aud dislikes make to her? 
They were a lot of old tabby-cats, who did not know the 
meaning of the word “fun,” and who were as spiteful as 
they were solemn. At any rate, even if they did not ap- 
prove of her ways, there w T ere plenty who did, and the so- 
ciety of these, she infinitely preferred. 

One noon, she was sitting in her dressing-room, wrapped 


44 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


in the most chic of peignoirs, having her hair dressed, 
when the butler rapped discreetly at the door. 

The maid opened it and announced to her mistress that 
there was some one waiting in the reception-room to see 
her. 

“What, at this hour?” exclaimed Mrs. French, with an- 
noyance. “Who is it, Harris? A lady?” 

The man said it was. 

“A lady ,” persisted Mrs. French, continuing to manicure 
her finger-nails, “or a canvasser? You ought to know the 
difference by this time, and what lady would make a call 
at breakfast-time?” 

Harris insisted respectfully that it teas a lady neverthe- 
less. 

“But her name or card,” persisted Mrs. French, petu- 
lantly. 

“She would not give me either, ” replied Harris, “but 
ahe said she wanted to see you very particular.” 

“Why, how strange — or how brazen, I don’t know 
which,” returned his mistress. “But I’ll bet five guineas 
her business is of no importance whatever to me, and if so, 
Harris, I shall be very angry at you for disturbing me. Go 
tell her I’ll be there directly, and mind you watch her ; she 
may nip some of my bric-a-brac while you’re gone.” 

The man disappeared with a shrug of the shoulders and 
a gesture which spoke more plainly than words. 

Mrs. French, when her hair was finished, with the maid’s 
assistance, got into a loose house-gown, bordered with 
marabout, added a drop or two of perfume to her lace hand- 
kerchief, and sailed into the drawing-room. Her caller was 
a lady, she decided mentally, as soon as her eyes rested 
upon the tall, commanding figure awaiting her, and there 


THE YOU EG WIDOW. 


45 


was something familiar about her, but as her back was 
toward her, Mrs. French did not recognize her at once. 

As she stepped through the portieres, however, the caller 
turned her head, and a half -suppressed exclamation broke 
from Mrs. French. 

“Miss Delmar!” she cried. 

“Yes,” was the answer, “it is I. Are you so surprised, 
then, to see me, Mrs. French?’’ 

“Somewhat, I must confess, ” replied Mrs. French, strug- 
gling to regain her composure. “I believe this is the first 
time I have ever had the pleasure of a visit from you. But 
pray sit down. ’ ’ 

“Mrs. French, ” began Rose, without further prelimi- 
nary, “I have come to you for news of my sister. Two 
weeks ago she went away from home, leaving me no word 
except a note saying that it would be useless for me to try 
to follow her. Of course I should have done so, notwith- 
standing, had I been able, but the shock made me seriously 
ill, and this is the first time I have been out since she left. 
Knowing how intimate you and she were, and that it was 
at your house certain events took place, I thought — no, I 
am sure, you can give me some clew as to her where- 
abouts. ’’ 

Her white face and uncertain voice told what an effort 
this speech cost Rose. 

“Why, Miss Delmar ” began Mrs. French, but Rose 

interrupted her. 

“Do not beat about the bush,’’ she said, “for you cannot 
deceive me. You can put me on her track if any one can, 
and I beg you for pity’s sake to do so. ” 

“But, my dear Miss Delmar, ” re-commenced Mrs. French, 


46 THE YOUNG WIDOW. 

loftily. ‘ : How on earth should I know where your sister is, 
if you do not?” 

Her well-aimed shaft fell unheeded. 

‘‘We w 7 on’t discuss that,” remarked Rose, coldly; “it is 
sufficient to accept the fact as it is, and it is your duty to 
give me the information I require.” 

“I can do nothing of the sort,” replied Dolly, flatly. 

“You refuse?” uttered Rose, steadily. 

“You are taking an unfair advantage of me, ” declared 
Dolly, tapping the floor impatiently with her foot. 

“Indeed I am not, Mrs. French,” said Rose. “In com- 
ing to you I have taken the most natural course in the 
world. I am convinced that you and perhaps you alone can 
tell me where to find Florence — in fact, you admit as much 
— and I expect you to do so.” 

Dolly opened her eyes wide ; she felt grieved, offended, 
and possibly a little nettled. 

“You are entirely mistaken, I assure you,” she said, in 
her most dignified tone. 

Rose smiled with impatience. This woman was as will- 
ful as a child, and must he treated as such. 

“You still care for Florence, do you not?” she asked, 
softly. 

“She was the dearest friend I ever had, ” responded 
Dolly. “You ought to know that.” 

“ Was?" repeated Rose, quickly. 

Dolly saw she had made a false move and flushed slight- 
ly. The truth is, she was getting nervous. If there was one 
thing she detested, it was to be catechised. So she took 
refuge in anger once more. 

“Yes, teas" she pouted. “She is gone, is she not? Per- 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


47 


haps I may never see her again, so I suppose I may be per- 
mitted to say ‘was’ if I choose, Miss Delmar?” 

“You are a cruel woman!” cried Rose, biting her lip, 
“and if it were your sister you might understand my feel- 
ings.” 

Next to being questioned, Dolly disliked being abused. 
And under her own roof, too, it was unbearable. So she 
rose to her feet and was about to reply scathingly, when 
she changed her mind and began to cry softly. 

“You have no — no right to talk so to me,” she sobbed. 
“I would do anything to get Florence back again.” 

“You have only to prove it, then, ” commanded Rose, 
coldly. 

“What can I do?” she responded, doggedly, from the 
depths of her handkerchief. 

Rose’s patience was well-nigh exhausted. Utterly weary 
of the farce, she sighed and drew her chair closer to Mrs. 
French’s. 

“Listen to me,” she said, as kindly as she could. “You 
appear to be a sensitive little creature, and I’ve no doubt 
you are a good-hearted one in many respects, but you are 
acting falsely to all three of us in this manner — to Flor- 
ence, to me, and lastly, to yourself. You claim that j^ou 
would like to see her home again, and yet you refuse point- 
blank to help me to get her back. But I warn you, sooner 
or later you must tell me, and for your own sake it is bet- 
ter that it be now.” 

Dolly caught her breath and glanced out of the corner of 
her eye at the pale, serious face bent so near her own. It 
was evident Miss Delmar was very much in earnest, and 
she began to be afraid. Instinctively she looked toward 
the hall to see if any one of the servants were in sight. 


48 


THE YOU HO WIDOW. 


But no, there was no one, the two women were alone, quite 
alone. Dolly had something of the feeling of a mouse at 
the mercy of a hungry cat. At last she straightened up 
and asked in a heroic tone : 

“Would you have me betray confidence, Miss Delmar?” 

“In this case, yes. It would be doing a service.” 

“Ah, I had forgotten you are a Catholic,” uttered Dolly, * 
with a suspicion of a sneer, “and such things are counte- 
nanced in your religion.” 

“Let us keep to the matter in hand, please,” said Hose, 
quietly, “or you may get beyond your depth.” 

Dolly was exceedingly uncomfortable. She had a vague 
impression that this young woman was determined to gain 
her point in spite of all she could do. Worse still, her con- 
science pricked her; so she decided to give in, if she must, 
but not without one last struggle. 

“I may, perhaps be able to give you the information you 
ask for, Miss Delmar,” she said, after a pause, “but I can 
assure you, you will not relish hearing it.” 

“That is my affair.” 

“Still, as you insist, perhaps it is my duty to tell you 
about a letter I got from Florence the day after she left 
home. Mind you,” she went on, raising her hand, “she did 
not come here nor have I seen her since, and her running 
away was almost as great a shock to me as it could have 
been to you.” 

“Go on!” Rose grew paler. 

“Well,” resumed Dolly, clasping her knee with her 
hands “You know, I presume, of her love-affair with Ar- 
thur Eldridge?” 

Rose nodded. She could not trust herself to speak. 

“I thought it a desirable match for both of them,” she 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


49 


continued, “ excellent, and I’m honest enough to say that I 
threw them together as much as possible. He became 
awfully infatuated — quite lost his head over her and she 
apparently reciprocated. All was going as merrily as a 
marriage-bell, when suddenly something unpleasant hap- 
pened between them, and he never called again.” 

‘‘I know all this,” said Hose, in a low voice, “but ivhat 
happened? You ought to know.” 

Dolly shrugged her shoulders and looked away. 

“Neither of them thought me worthy of confidence, evi- 
dently, so I cannot answer you.” 

“Do you mean to say Florence did not tell you about it?” 
asked Rose, incredulously. 

“I do, ” asserted Dolly. “She got gloomy and moody and 
the first thing I knew, she packed up and went home, to 
my disgust, without making it up with Arthur. And be- 
tween you and me, Miss Delmar, she made an out-and-out 
idiot of herself, for Arthur Eldridge is the best catch in 
town.” 

Rose vouchsafed no answer to this interesting bit of in- 
formation. 

“You know what came next, ” resumed Dolly, slowly, 
“better than I do. When she reached Wallford she moped 
some more, I suppose. At least the two letters I got from 
her were blue enough.” 

“Two!” repeated Rose. “Why, she was writing all the 
time.” 

“Maybe, but not to me. Then, last Tuesday, I got another 
letter from her, written on board the steamer Etruria.” 

“She has gone to Europe?” gasped Rose, leaning for- 
ward. 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


CO 

“So it seems,’’ answered Dolly, calmly examining one of 
her pretty, pink finger-nails, “so I should conclude.’’ 

“But never alone! With whom did she go?” 

Rose’s heart seemed to stand still as she asked this ques- 
tion. 

Dolly’s face grew very mournful. 

“That’s the most unfortunate part of it, ” she responded, 
reluctantly. “As I said before, my news is not pleasant, 
but you would insist on hearing it. . It appears she went 
with a man named Fabbricotti, a person who trains people 
for the stage. He met her here in New York on several oc- 
casions, when we were rehearsing for some private theat- 
ricals, and by some means or other he induced her to go 
abroad with him. No doubt she intends to go on the stage 
— he said she had a great deal of talent, and he went wild 
over her singing.” 

Rose fell back in her chair with her face like that of a 
dead woman. 

“Tlierese! Harris!” screamed Dolly, rushing toward the 
door. 

But Rose made a motion w T ith her hand. 

“Be quiet,” she said, faintly. “I shall be all right pres- 
ently. Did— did I hear you aright? Did you say Florence 
had gone to Europe with a— man— not her husband?” 

“I believe she has, Miss Delmar,” answered Dolly, in a 
subdued tone, “at any rate, she didn’t give me to under- 
stand they had been married. I saved her letter. You may 
read it if you wish.” 

Rose pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. Oh, if 
she could but awake and find the torture of this hour a 
dream. The horror, the disgrace, of it were maddening, 
and this heartless little woman was perhaps gloating over 


THE YOUEG WIDOW. 


51 


lier grief. She must leave the house at once and get away, 
anywhere, to be alone. But first she must have proof that 
Dolly’s words were true. 

“The letter?” she whispered. 

Dolly went to her desk, returning with it in her hand. 

“Here it is,” she said, simply. 

Rose fingered it nervously, dreading to open it. Yet she 
must. So setting her teeth tightly togather, she drew it 
from the envelope and read : 

“Etruria, In the Narrows, May 12th. 

“Dear Dolly: — The heading of this letter may surprise 
you, but I do not believe you will be greatly astonished to 
learn that I have decided to leav9 my home and my sister 
forever. Events have proved too much for me here, and so 
I think I will try my luck on the other side of the water. 
As I write I can almost see your horrified expression when 
I confide to you that I am traveling under the kind protec- 
tion of Mr. Orlando, whose admiration for me you so often 
ridiculed. But do not be disgusted — I am not eloping with 
him. He gave me the names of some young girls whom he 
intended taking abroad this summer to study for the stage, 
and after a little coaxing on his part, I determined to join 
them. 

“I may return to my native land a great star— or a dis- 
mal failure ; 1 consider the chances about even. But in any 
case, trust me to do the best I can for myself. 

“Good-by for the present. 

“Yours, as 9ver, 

“Florence.” 

Rose read it over twice, from beginning to end, her feat- 
ures like marble. Then she covered her face with her 
hands, and a deep, shuddering moan, like that of an ani- 
mal wounded unto death, shook her whole form. 

Dolly did not know what to say or do. She sat motion- 


52 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


less before this passionate grief, feeling about as uncom- 
fortable as she ever had in all her life. She considered her- 
self in a very awkward position and wished fervently some- 
thing would occur to relieve her from it. 

Something did occur presently. Miss Delmar rose, and 
after tearing the letter into bits, she lowered her vail, and 
without so much as a glance toward the discomfited Dolly 
swept from the house. 

Her brain could cope with but one idea — the disgrace of 
it — the horrible disgrace which her sister had brought upon 
her own head and the wreck she had made of her lifo. 

Florence singing upon the stage in the glare of the foot- 
lights for the lowest men to pass remarks upon, powerless 
to protect herself from any insults they might choose to 
offer her. Who would there be to care for her, defend her, 
advise her! No one, not one sincere soul on earth. She 
wondered what Father Moore would say to this? How 
could faith avail now? Could any number of prayers save 
her or bring her back as she was? A dumb, sullen anger 
took possession of her as she made her w T ay blindly to the 
cab, with its lean, white horse, awaiting her at the door. 

“And I imagined my cup of bitterness was full!” she 
whispered. “Oh, I see it all now — she was driven to it, my 
poor darling — forced to fly from her home by that man. 
Oh, if there be a God, how can he permit such things as 
this? Where shall I turn for aid? I feel so powerless, so 
utterly unable to take the right course. And all this time 
she is drifting farther away from me — from me, who lived 
but for her alone !” Suddenly a burning passion swept over 
her, and she clinched her gloved hands tightly. “But even 
if she is out of my reach,” she muttered, “must I sit idle? 
Shall I return to that desolate home to mourn alone while 


Tnn YOUNG WIDOW. 


53 


he, the cause of it all, lives with perhaps, not so much as a 
regret for the ruin he has wrought, unpunished and indif- 
ferent? No, a thousand times. I see my way plainly now, 
and I will pursue it whatever the cost. I shall not rest un- 
til I have repaid him in his own coin— dealt with him as he 
has dealt with me and mine. I shall leave no stone un- 
turned until he has suffered as I am suffering, pang for 
pang, torture for torture, through me!” 

As soon as the door closed behind her strange visitor 
Mrs. French rushed to her dressing-room and indulged in 
a good cry. Then she bade Harris bring her a small bottle 
of champagne and some biscuits to ‘‘brace up” her nerves, 
which she felt w T ere dreadfully shattered, and settled her- 
self comfortably on the divan for a short nap. 

She awoke about three o’clock, unrefreshed, and rang 
the bell rather petulantly for Therese. 

‘‘Tell Harris to order the carriage,” she directed, when 
the maid appeared, ‘‘and dress me at once, as l am going 
for a drive. ” 

It was only when sh9 found herself lying back against 
the cushions of her victoria, clad in the daintiest of spring 
costumes and holding a small sunshade — a marvel of silk 
and lace just from Paris — between her delicate skin and 
the bold rays of the sun, that she began to feel like herself 
again. 

The wrinkles under her fluffy bang gradually faded away, 
and the customary smile returned to her red lips. 

‘‘Dear me, ” she murmured, regarding herself in the tiny 
mirror which she was never without, “I really must have 
no more annoyances of this sort in the future ; the effect is 
so injurious to the complexion. I am quite yellow and 
pinched looking this afternoon, and when did the woman 


54 


THE YOUNG WIDOW. 


ever live who was worth losing one’s beauty for? That 
tiresome Rose Delmar! What a row she did kick up with 
me, I declare, hut I flatter myself I settled her nicely. Just 
as if I had ‘aided and abetted’ Florence’s elopement with a 
low-down singing master, or could whistle and bring her 
hack ! People are such fools, and they expect so much of 
others! Pshaw! let them go, and their troubles with them ! 
I am sympathetic, oh, yes, none more so, indeed, at the 
proper time, but that isn’t always. Not by any means. 
Amusez vons bien, is my motto, and the world will al- 
ways find me ready to laugh with it, but to weep — bah ! 
one looks so ugly with one’s face drawn up into a knot and 
one’s nose crimson ! besides, it is a bore, and life is much, 
much too short to drone away.” 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALE. 


65 


CHAPTER VI. 

A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 

The second pull at the door-bell of Arthur Eldridge’s 
bachelor apartment in Thirty-second street was even more 
vigorous than the first, and whoever was outside evidently 
intended to be admitted. 

“Confound it!” exclaimed Mr. Eldridge, from the desk, 
where he was sorting some papers, “it seems as if I can 
get no peace to-night. That makes the fourth person who 
has been here since nine o’clock, and it isn’t yet half-past. 
This one means to get in, too, I should judge. So you may 
as well open the door, Peters,’’ this resignedly. 

The servant obeyed, and a man in evening dress, with 
his overcoat unbuttoned, (for it was a night in May), made 
his way into the room. 

“Hello, old man,” he cried, familiarly, throwing himself 
into the most comfortable chair within reach, “I just heard 
the news at the club and hustled right up here to find out 
if it is true.” 

“The news?” repeated Eldridge, tossing a packet of let- 
ters into the waste-paper basket. “What news?” 

“Why, yes, about your leaving for parts unknown at no 
remote date. Is it true, or has old Dame Rumor lied again? 
If it is so, I hope you’ll enlighten me, at least, as to when, 
where, and particularly why you are going. Sick of town, 
or is it the weather?” 

“One question at a time, please,” returned Eldridge, 
pushing the cigarettes toward his friend and making a mo- 
tion to his valet. 


56 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK . 


Richard, or as liis intimate friends all called him, “Dick” 
Forrest, was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with well-shaped 
hands and feet, and a brown, healthy skin. His age might 
have been anywhere between thirty-seven and forty, and 
his full, light-brown beard and curling hair, which would 
not lie flat in spite of the energetic brusliings it received 
daily, were dashed with gray. His eyes, of a deep blue 
color, were steadfast in expression and heavily lidded. 

Arthur Eldridge was fully ten years his junior and 
showed it in both appearance and manner. He weighed 
fifty pounds less and was of a decidedly athletic frame. His 
face was delicately handsome, and beside his friend’s more 
mature features, looked almost boyish. He wore neither 
mustache nor beard. The mass of dark hair covering his 
head, which he wore rather long in a careless fashion, fall 
ing over his forehead, gave to his face a bright, happy look. 

In manner Mr. Forrest was so undemonstrative and de- 
liberate that most people, on meeting both men for the first 
time, preferred Mr. Eldridge. Arthur was gay and lively 
in disposition, and was a general favorite wherever he 
went, while Dick, more reticent by nature, made a wide 
distinction between his friends and acquaintances. Among 
his intimates, however, he was considered the prince of 
good fellows, and his society was much sought after. 

His friendship -with Arthur had been of long standing, 
and his frank liking for the young man was fully appreci- 
ated and returned. In all important matters Arthur always 
sought Dick’s aid and counsel, relying upon his judgment 
as entirely as he would have done had he been his own 
brother, and he never had had cause to regret it. Although 
rather a scoffer at affaires du coeur in general and a non- 
believer in the tender passion to any serious extent, Dick 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


57 


never refused his sympathy to Arthur, and listened with 
fresh interest to each new tale which the younger man 
chose to pour into his ear. And it must he acknowledged 
that in the course of their acquaintance he had been called 
upon more than once. 

An orphan from earliest childhood, Mr. Forrest, with an 
elder sister, had been left to the care of an indulgent grand- 
mother who had lived just long enough to see the girl mar- 
ried and the boy enter college. Comparatively alone in the 
world from that time forth, he became thoroughly self-re- 
liant and independent. The share of his parents’ comforta- 
ble fortune, which became his at twenty-one, had been 
greatly augmented by old Mrs. Forrest’s demise, and had 
he so chosen, he might have given himself over to a life of 
ease and idleness for the remainder of his days. But he 
was not so constituted. His father had been a physician ; 
he became a broker, and before he was thirty had trebled 
his inheritance. 

More than one mamma with marriageable daughters had 
beamed encouragingly upon the prosperous young bachelor, 
and several bewitching widows had been known to lavish 
their sweetest smiles upon him, but fruitlessly. 

That he liked and admired several charming women of 
his acquaintance was an open secret, but that he preferred 
to keep them all at a proper distance was no less so. Hence 
he was a constant despair to the fair sex, and a source of 
amusement to his own. Unlike his friend, a pretty face sel- 
dom failed to make its impression on Arthur’s senses, even 
if it did stop short of his heart. 

The valet placed a decanter, a pitcher of water, and two 
glasses upon the table, and then drew the curtains and left 
the room. 


58 


a Confidential talk. 


For the space of half a minute there was a silence, broken 
only by the Monogram as it poured into the glasses and 
the clink of the ice striking against the sides of the pitcher, 
as each man weakened his drink to suit himself. Two 
heads nodded simultaneously, with a “Here’s to you,” 
and then Arthur, after handing a lighted fusee to his vis- 
itor, used it himself, and both leaned back, while cloud 
after cloud of smoke encircled their heads. 

“Come, out with it, old chap,” began the visitor, abrupt- 
ly, finally; “don’t keep me in suspense. Are you going 
away?” 

“Yes.” 

“Soon?” 

“To-morrow.” 

“Whew! Where?” 

“Norway.” 

“Norway! Holy smoke! Why not to the moon and be 
done with it? And to-morrow ! What has happened to 
make you rush off in this fashion? Crossed in love?” 

“Don’t be a fool, Dick; I’m going for salmon.” 

“Humph ! Salmon-fishing — tiger-shooting — unhappy lov- 
ers’ resorts. I was right first clip, ” muttered Dick. “But 
who is sending you on this wild-goose, or rather, salmon 
chase? It’s never ” 

“I just beg of you not to be an ass,” interrupted El- 
dridge, contemplatively knocking the ashes off his cigar- 
ette. 

“You’re not over polite this evening, my boy,” declared 
Forrest, imperturbably. 

“I’m ugly.” 

, “I have discovered that your mood is not precisely an- 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK 


59 


gelic, ” rejoined the other, rising and leaning against the 
chimney. “Arthur, you have something on your mind.” 

“The duse you say!” returned Arthur, with assumed 
levity. “Thanks for the assumption that I possess that 
highly prized article, however. Look here, Dick, why are 
you trying your level best to make a very large mountain 
of the tiniest of mole-hills?” 

“Mole-hills have been known to spoil the best of lawns in 
very short order,” returned Dick, and then went on, seri- 
ously: “Why are you trying to deceive the best and oldest 
friend you’ve got in the world? Now I ask you is it square? 
Haven’t we been hand-in-glove ever since you were a boy? 
Haven’t I given you the benefit of all my experience in 
this difficult world? Haven’t you confided in me ever since 
you left college? And have I not taken the same interest in 
you I would have taken in my own brother, had I been 
blessed with one? Wherein have I ever failed you? Yet 
now, when something has gone wrong with you, as I can 
plainly see, you freeze up and prefer to keep your own 
counsel. Don’t deny it; I can read you like a book.” 

The younger man’s eyes had sought the floor while his 
friend was speaking, and when he paused he made no re- 
sponse. 

“You’re unlike yourself,” continued Forrest, “and have 
been looking seedy for weeks. Yes, every time I’ve seen 
you lately, I’ve been expecting you to tell me what ails 
you, but with no result. It’s quite true, my boy, you might 
find a less cynical confidant than I am — one, perhaps, who 
would make you feel on better terms with yourself, after- 
ward, for to most people I am only a heartless, selfish man 
of the world, and to others a typical club rounder, without 
a thought beyond my own comfort or a desire more elevat- 


60 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


ing than a well-mixed gin-fizz. But I believe you know 
what metal I am made of, and you also are aware of how 
much I have always thought of you. So out with it.” 

Still Eldridge hesitated, and looked at his friend in an 
uncertain kind of a way. Finally : 

‘‘There isn’t so much to tell, after all,” he began, ‘‘and I 
rather fancy you’ll laugh at me; most people would. But, 
Dick,” he broke out, impulsively, ‘‘you are right, I am in 
no end of a fix.” 

“Well?” 

‘‘It's no use, old man, I can’t give you the particulars. 
But I’ll tell you part. You remember the -little Delmar girl 
who was staying with Dolly French?” 

‘‘Of course I do — the one you were such spoons on all 
winter. Wherever did Dolly pick her up? But widows gen- 
erally are sharp, and she is no exception. Remember her? 
I rather think I do, and often wondered how she came 
across Dolly. She’s none too trustworthy a chaperon for 
any pretty young girl, in my opinipn. She’d do almost any- 
thing for excitement, that woman. ’ ’ 

“Never mind Dolly. It’s Florence I am talking about. 
You’re right. I did see a lot of her at odd times, when she 
visited Dolly, and the fact is, old man, I grew awfully fond 
of the little girl.” 

“Not seriously?” 

‘ ‘ Seriously. ’ ’ 

Forrest shook his head mournfully. 

“It certainly is time for me to interfere,” he exclaimed. 
“Bui you’re never going to marry her? I didn’t suppose 
you were the marrying kind.” 

“Not now, but I meant to.” 

“Thank heaven! What changed you?” 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


61 


‘ ‘ Circumstances. ’ * 

Forrest saw that he had run against a blank wall and 
wisely refrained from butting his head against it, though 
he longed to press the question. 

“Upon my word,” he remarked, after a short pause, “I 
don’t see anything so overwhelming in what you’ve just 
told me.” 

“I haven’t finished yet; the worst is to come. You know 
what a queer composition my governor is? Well, take an- 
other old recluse just as remarkable, put them together 
with a single idea imbedded in each of their brains, and 
imagine what would happen.” 

“Somebody would get hurt, ” suggested Forrest, thought- 
fully. 

“Exactly, and I am the unfortunate victim.” 

“I fail to understand.” 

“You will as I proceed. My father has an old friend 
whom he has known intimately since they were boys to- 
gether, and naturally they are pretty much alike in their 
opinions. It seems old Clayton married much later in life 
than my father did, and lost his wife shortly afterward. 
She left one child, a daughter. This girl, it happens, was 
taken charge of by an aunt who took her abroad and edu- 
cated her. A short time ago old Clayton, feeling that his 
end could not be so very far off, I suppose, sent for her to 
come home.” 

“That was natural enough,” remarked Forrest. 

“Possibly. But the sequel is quite the reverse, ” declared 
Arthur. “No sooner had she reached this side than these 
two old dolts became imbued with a great and glorious 
idea. ‘Why,’ they argued, ‘if we have each given to the 
world a fine specimen of humanity should we not unite 


62 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK . 


them so that future generations may he benefited?’ And 
the more they thought and talked it over, the more mag- 
nificent the idea seemed to them, evidently, for thev actu- 
ally ” 

“Intend that you two shall marry?’’ 

“Precisely. Did you ever hear of such a heathenish, 
ridiculous piece of business in your life? Mind you, Dick, 
before we have ever met or even seen each other, these two 
old fossils have planned our future to suit themselves. And 
the worst of it is, they are perfectly serious about the mat- 
ter. Think of it ; in this enlightened nineteenth century ! 
Why, the thing is preposterous — disgusting!” 

“But surely it seems to me you ought to have some say 
in the matter,” said Forrest, reflectively,. “being most con- 
cerned.” 

“So any rational being would suppose, but we haven’t a 
syllable. The thing is cut and dried. ” 

“What do you propose to do about it?” 

“Just what any sober-minded person would do, under 
the circumstances — cut and run. I had a terrible scene with 
the governor about a week ago.” 

“What was the upshot of it?” 

“Norway.” 

“You pointed out his folly to him, of course?” 

“Didn’t I? I told him this world was more than a yard 
in circumference, and that it was quite possible Miss Clay- 
ton and I might both prefer to marry some one else when 
the proper time came. In any event, I said, it was doing 
an injustice to both of us if either she or I listened to such 
a proposition, and I, for my part, should not submit.” 

“What answer did he make?” 

“Oh, he carried on like a child, called me undutiful, etc, 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK . 


63 


etc., until I fled the house. Poor old man ! I fear he is in 
his dotage, and for that reason I feel badly about leaving 
him. But they’re a pair of precious old fools and no mis- 
take. You see, I’ve taken the only alternative.” 

“You’re right, my boy, not to countenance such a piece 
of nonsense,” uttered Forrest, heartily. “Why, the two 
romantic old simpletons must be stark mad ! Go away for 
a while, and I’ll lay ten to one the governor sends for you 
inside of three months.” 

“I hate to leave him alone at his age,” returned Arthur, 
gloomily. “Suppose anything were to happen to him dur- 
ing my absence?” 

“You would have nothing to reproach yourself with, 
whatever happened, ” said Forrest. “You simply can't stay 
if he persists in this absurdity. Let him cool off.” 

“I think just as you do,” answered Eldridge, “so there’s 
nothing left for me but to go, is there? Take a fresh cigar- 
ette.” 

Forrest made a negative motion with his hand. He was 
busily thinking. 

“Now I see the connection between what you have just 
told me and the few remarks you dropped about Miss Del- 
mar in the beginning,” he exclaimed, triumphantly, a mo- 
ment later. “At first, I confess, I didn’t. You’re in love 
with the little one and have had a falling out with her, but 
are determined not to throw away your chances with her 
by a foolish move. You’re right, if you think she is the 
woman for you. Depend on it, all will turn out well if 
you’ve only got sand. Manage your own love affairs, and 
then, if they go wrong, you’ve no one but yourself to 
blame. But I must be off now ; I’ve an engagement at the 
club at ten. Might look in about one if you’re up. Anyway 


64 


A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 


I’ll see you off to-morrow. What time does the steamer 
sail? We must have another chat.” 

“Two o’clock. Will you lunch with me at Del’s about 
twelve?” 

“Very well, I’ll he there. Good-by for the present.” 

So saying, he threw his coat over his arm, took his stick, 
and bustled out. 


“ LOOKS LIKE FATE: 


65 


CHAPTER VII. 

“looks like fate.” 

It was one of the busiest days of the late fall, two years 
later, at the New York Stock Exchange. Jersey Central 
had gone up twenty points in two days, and Lackawanna 
had risen six in as many hours. The galleries were crowded, 
and the hubbub below was deafening. 

Over in the corner where Union Pacific was dealt in a lit- 
tle knot of men had gathered and were talking eagerly. 
One who was in the center of the group was a young man 
with a face just then beaming with excitement. He was 
scanning a number of telegrams which a boy had just 
handed him with a smile of satisfaction. 

“By Jove!” exclaimed the man nearest him. “What an 
uproar! I haven’t seen such a day here for years. It ought 
to mean thousands in the pockets of some of us before the 
week is out.” 

“Pour telegrams more, from Chicago, Forrest,” said the 
other. “Two of them are orders from Haines & Co. Our 
office will be kept pretty busy all day.” 

“Whew!” was the reply, “you are in luck. But you al- 
ways come in for the lion’s share in everything, Arthur. 
By the way, I just got a tip from Morris that sugar is good 
for three points more inside of two days. Are many of 
your customers loaded up with it?” 

“More or less; Harry Frazer bought three thousand 
shares to-day, but I warned them against it. I think it’s 
dangerous stuff to tackle.” 

Forrest was about to answer when his attention was sud- 
denly drawn to one of the galleries. 


66 


“ LOOKS LIKE fate: 


“Hello,” he said, pointing upward. “What on earth is 
that fellow doing? Everybody’s watching him.” 

The man in question was tearing up hits of paper and 
letting them flutter slowly down to the floor below. Quite 
a little mock snow-storm was descending close to their 
heads. 

“By gracious!” exclaimed Eldridge, “I believe the fool’s 
destroying money. See, he’s thrown his pocket-book down 
now.” 

Just then they observed two men step up to the careless 
individual, and a struggle ensued, but it was short-lived, 
and presently the donor of halved and quartered green- 
backs was led off, much against his will. 

“That's the crank I saw in front of the Sub-Treasury 
Building at noon, wrapping his coat around the feet of 
Washington’s statue, saying, ‘Poor George is cold,’” vol- 
unteered a bystander. “They say he is a ruined broker.” 

There was a general laugh at this, and then the little 
group began to disperse, when all at once there was the 
sound of a heavy fall near by. Several men sprang forward 
Eldridge among the number. 

A tall, slender old man with snowy hair and beard, who 
had been standing near by, lay prone upon the hard floor, 
motionless. 

A crowd, which it was almost impossible to beat back, 
gathered around, entirely forgetting stocks and bonds for 
the moment. 

“Who is it?” 

That was the question in everybody’s mouth. 

“Stand aside and give him air,” commanded Arthur, 
who had been the first to reach his side and had lifted the 
heavy, senseless head to his knee. 


“ LOOKS LIKE FATE." 67 

Half a dozen had recognized him, and his name was 
passed from month to month. 

“Mr. Chilton, ’’ they murmured. 

A messenger was dispatched for a doctor, and the un- 
conscious form was tenderly borne to the secretary’s room 
and laid upon a sofa there. 

It was two o’clock and business was for the time being 
suspended, as it was uncertain whether the breath was 
about to leave the body of the stricken man or not and 
presently the floor of the exchange was cleared as if by 
magic. Mr. Clayton’s friends lingered around until the doc- 
tor appeared, and then, learning from him that he was in 
no immediate danger of dying, to the best of his belief, 
they, too, went their ways one by one. 

“Apoplexy, is it not, doctor?” asked Arthur, who still 
stood near. 

The doctor nodded. 

“And he must be taken home at once. Will you and an- 
other gentleman accompany him?” he said. 

“I will, ” replied Arthur, after a pause, “and will you 
come, too, Dick?” 

“Certainly,” answered Forrest at once, fixing his eyes 
steadily on Arthur. 

“Then let some one call a carriage, ” commanded the 
doctor. ‘ ‘ There must be no delay. ’ ’ 

As carefully and rapidly as possible, the coachman 
guided his horses through the crowded thoroughfare and 
up Fifth avenue to the address given But to those inside 
the carriage, it seemed a rough and endless journey. Mr. 
Clayton lay as quiet and nerveless as thougn dead. 

“It is always so hard to break sad news to the family,” 
remarked Forrest. 


6a 


“LOOKS LIKE FATE. 


But he received no reply as the doctor was busy feeling 
the sick man’s pulse, and Eldridge was occupied with his 
thoughts. 

The faint sound of a piano fell upon their ears as they 
entered the hall of Mr. Clayton’s fine residence, supporting 
the burden as best they could between them. The solemn- 
faced butler who admitted tnem actually manifested signs 
of something resembling emotion, as he saw the serious 
condition of his master. 

“We must lay him upon a lounge, down stairs, until his 
bed is made ready,” announced the doctor, authoritative- 
ly, turning the knob of the door nearest to him. 

“That’s the music-room, and Miss Gertrude is practic- 
ing,” remonstrated the butler, apprehensively. “Pray, sir, 
come in here.” 

But he spoke too late. Already the doctor had thrown 
the door wide open, and motioned them to follow him. 

As they entered the music stopped abruptly and a figure 
arose from the piano. 

It was that of a young girl, whose lips parted and whose 
eyes took on an expression of terror, as she advanced 
toward them. 

“Papa!” she cried, in alarm, and then stood still as 
though rooted to the spot. 

“Calm yourself I beg, my dear Miss Clayton,” uttered 
the doctor, in a professional tone, “your father has been 
taken suddenly ill, but I see no reason for serious alarm at 
present. Good nursing and care will bring him around all 
right, I trust, but above all things he must have quiet- 
absolute quiet. So you understand for his sake, you must 
exercise great control over yourself. I have ordered his bed 


“LOOKS LIKE I ATE." 


69 


to be opened, and he must be put into it directly it is 
ready. ’ ’ 

She made no reply, but her heaving bosom showed with 
what an effort she controlled herself. 

“.That doctor is a cold-blooded brute!” ejaculated El- 
dridge, mentally, as he saw r how pale she had grown. “He 
has no delicacy whatever.” 

Even at that grave moment Arthur could not help being 
impressed by the beauty of the young girl before him. She 
could not have been more than twenty, and her figure in 
its white cloth house-dress, relieved by a delicate tracing 
of embroidery and ornamented by a bunch of violets, was 
faultless in outline. The hair, of a peculiar, reddish-bronze 
tint, was gathered high upon her head and held there by a 
silver comb. Unlike most women, she wore it drawn softly 
back from her forehead, and it was evident that in no 
other fashion would it have become her so well. Her nose 
was clear-cut and small, and her skin as smooth as a child’s. 
Her feet 

But before he had an opportunity to continue his sur- 
vey, the servant announced that the master’s room was 
prepared for him. 

With Mr. Clayton’s disappearance beneath the bed- 
clothes, the duties in that house of Mr. Eldridge and his 
friend, Dick, were over. The family physician had been 
summoned, and into his hands the doctor would soon re- 
sign his charge, but still Arthur appeared to be in no hurry 
to take his departure. 

Miss Clayton was moving noiselessly about, attending to 
the doctor’s needs, with her eyes fixed anxiously upon her 
father’s expressionless countenance, apparently oblivious 
of the presence of everybody else. 


70 


' LOOKS LIKE FATE." 


“Hadn’t we better be off?” whispered Forrest, but still 
his friend, who was standing in the door- way, made no sign 
of even having heard him. 

Forrest waited a moment longer, then bowing to Miss 
Clayton, hat in hand, he started toward the staircase. Then 
only Arthur seemed to rouse himself. 

“Miss Clayton, may I have a word with you?” he said, 
at length, hastily. 

She came toward him. 

“I merely wished to say, ” he continued, “that if there is 
any way in which I can be of service to you, I would take 
it as a great favor if you will let me know. We have never 
met before, but the fact is, Mr. Clayton and my father have 
been friends for years. Here is my card, and the address, 
University Club, will always find me.” 

Miss Clayton took the card, started slightly as she read 
the name engraved upon it, and then replied, politely, if 
coldly : 

“You are very kind, Mr. Eldridge, and I thank you for 
what you have done for my father. If I need you I will 
send you word.” 

“I will call in the morning to see how he is,” concluded 
Arthur. 

She had returned to the invalid’s bedside, and her back 
was toward him. 

“Thanks,” he heard her murmur, and then he followed 
Dick down stairs. 

“Is it you at last?” uttered Mr. Forrest, who was await- 
ing him impatiently. “Upon my word, I concluded that 
you had decided to spend the night there. Whatever kept 
you?” 

“I simply wanted to find out if I could be of any use to 


“LOOKS LIKE FATE. 


71 


Miss Clayton,” explained Arthur. ‘‘There are a hundred 
things she might need, and the old man’s pretty sick.” 

‘‘Oh,” uttered Dick, “then you weren’t waiting to be in- 
vited to dinner?” 

“How you do rattle on, Dick!” 

“Not at all, my dear boy; you acted as though you were 
moon-struck, positively.” 

“Moon-struck, ” repeated Arthur. “You’re too absurd.” 

“Yes, you never took your eyes off Miss Clayton one 
blessed second while you were in the house. Can’t say I 
blame you, either,” stopping to light a cigarette; “she’s a 
dused,” puff, puff, “handsome woman.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, you did not notice her particularly, then?” said 
Dick, dryly. “Well, I did, and I tell you she’s a beauty. 
To think, Arthur, she is the girl you ran away to escape 
two years ago. Had you any idea she was like this?” 

“No, I did not take the trouble to ask any questions about 
her at all. The facts were enough to make me avoid her, 
had she been Venus herself. But this is a singular meet- 
ing being rushed into her presence as it were nolens 

volens. ’ ’ 

“Looks like fate,” remarked Forrest. 

“I think it looks like rain,” returned Arthur, refusing to 
reply to his friend’s observation, “and I wish I had 
brought an umbrella instead of a stick. By the way, which 
way are you going? Club?” 

“Yes, all the same, though,” persisted Dick, “you were 
the biggest loser in that operation.” 

“ Ho w do you know that? ’ ’ asked Arthur, stiffly. ‘ ‘ Beau ty 
isn’t everything. She may have a bad temper. ” 

“I’d take my chances on that.” 


72 


“LOOKS LIKE FATE. 


“Indeed, I actually believe you were smitten with her 
yourself,” said Arthur, unamiably. “It occurs to me, if 
my memory serves me correctly, that you were the very 
person that advised me to do as I did.” 

“That’s right; you could not have acted differently un- 
der the circumstances. I’m not blaming you; I’m only 
ruminating.” 

“It’s barely possible you might consider the fatal step 
yourself one of these fine days,” said Arthur, “in spite of 
your extreme views on the subject.” 

“No danger, I’m too old, my boy; I’ve seen too much. 
Hang it all, I sometimes wish I hadn’t seen the beginning 
and ending of so many matrimonial ventures. It makes me 
feel so blase, so confoundedly grandfatherly. ” 

“Men older than you marry,” observed Arthur, shortly. 

“Yes, Dolly’s husband did, for instance, and the daisies 
are growing on his grave, and the pathetic part of it is, 
they aren’t of her planting— or nobody believes they are. 
No, thank you, I’m wise in my generation ; fit my age a 
man admires, where at yours he loves, or imagines he does. 
The blood cools as you mature, which is a blessing, for if 
it were otherwise, what an endless lot of love-sick old 
geese you would stumble across! It is pitiful to contem- 
plate. But you, you should have married this charming 
girl, Arthur, and I dare say you would have done so and 
been happy ever after, had the old people not meddled.” 

“What is that about the ‘dead past, ’ Dick? Suppose we 
change the subject. Can you tell me what has become of 
Dolly? I have not seen her since I got back from the other 
side.” 

“Dolly is a busy woman,” replied Forrest, on dit she is 
tired of living alone and is on the hunt for another hus- 


‘ ‘L 0 OKS LIKE FA TE. ’ ’ 


73 


band. From all appearances Gordon Russell is the man she 
thinks will about fill the bill, and she has got all her feel- 
ers out to catch him.” 

“Does he know it?” 

‘‘Not much ! Dolly’s too cute for that. She knows how to 
play him, and the consequence is, he’s terribly gone on 
her.” 

“Poor fellow, he’s a callow youth, too.” 

“By no means, ‘poor fellow,’ Gordon hasn’t a red, and 
he is as stubborn as a mule. Dolly has plenty of tin and 
thinks she’s dead in love. The result will be — if it does 
amount to anything — as comfortable a marriage all around 
as one generally sees nowadays.” 

“But Dolly will make a pretty good fight for her own 
way, and you know it isn’t always the kind of way one ap- 
proves of in a wife,” suggested Arthur. 

“Fol-de-rol. Depend upon it, every woman is bound to 
meet her master one of these days, and she is willing 
enough to give in to the right one, you know, and if Rus- 
sell happens to be Dolly’s fate, why, he’ll find a pudding 
chuck full of plums. Here’s the club. Coming in? No? 
Then I must say good-by for the present.” 


74 


“i BELIEVE I’M IN LOVE 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ I BELIEVE l’M IN LOVE.” 

The next morning at ten o’clock Arthur presented him- 
self at Mr. Clayton’s house to inquire after the health of 
the old gentleman. 

The butler told him that his master was better, and 
upon receiving this information, he was about to leave, 
when he heard a light footfall, and Miss Clayton entered 
the drawing-room. 

‘‘Good-morning, Mr. Eldridge,” she said, offering him 
her cool, slim fingers, ‘‘I saw you from the window up 
stairs, where I was sitting with papa, ‘‘and I thought I 
would run down and tell you myself how very much im- 
proved he is. Doctor Gray says he is about out of danger 
now.” 

If he had thought her lovely yesterday, Arthur found 
her a hundred times more so this morning, in her loose 
gown of white flannel, belted in at the waist with a tas- 
seled silken cord. It gave the most bewitching glimpses of 
the slender, rounded neck, w\hile a bunch of purple violets 
replaced the ones she had worn the day before. When he 
knew her better he found she was seldom without these 
fragrant flowers about her person winter or summer. 

He remained a quarter of an hour, chatting with her and 
went away charmed Her manners were as easy and grace- 
ful as those of a thorough paced woman of the w T orld, and 
her voice — well, he thought he could listen to it always and 
never weary, so exquisitely modulated "was it. 

‘‘That is where a foreign education has the advantage 


‘I BELIEVE I'M IN LOVE. 


75 


over one of this country,” he soliloquized, as he made his 
way toward the Exchange. “Nothing like it for training 
the voice and giving a woman the true polish. Possibly, if 
she had never lived abroad she would have been merely a 
pretty girl, but as it is, by Jove, she’s perfect. Even Dick 
was impressed — poor, dear old Dick who vows he doesn’t 
care a snap for women. 1 wonder if he ever could think 
seriously of one? I never heard him rave so before over a 
‘petticoat,’ as he calls them. It would be too funny, and 
yet ” 

He did not finish his sentence and for the first time in 
his life Arthur realized how he might learn to hate his 
good ftriend Forrest. 

The next afternoon he called again, and the next, until 
finally, even when Mr. Clayton was up and moving about 
the house, Arthur continued to stop and inquire religious* 
ly after his health. It was really surprising to note the in- 
terest he took in the old gentleman’s welfare. 

One day he heard he was on the floor of the Exchange 
again looking quite restored, except for a slight pallor. He 
immediately went up and congratulated him, but it is 
doubtful if he expressed any real gratification at seeing him 
out again. For now, what excuse had he to call? But he 
nevertheless inquired after his appetite and strength so 
solicitously that he quite won the old gentleman’s heart. 

“So it appears you’re the son of my friend, Irving El- 
dridge?” said Mr. Clayton, abruptly, the same morning, as 
they met for the second time that day. 

Arthur expected this remark from him sooner or later, 
and was prepared. 

“Yes,” he answered, “I often heard my father speak of 
you, Mr. Clayton.” 


76 


“J BELIEVE I'M IN LOVE." 

“Were you home when he died?” asked Mr. Clayton. 

“Yes, I’d been back a month when he took the cold 
which killed him.” 

“Strange you and I never met before, ” pursued his ques- 
tioner, with an odd twinkle in his eye. “It seems to me 
we should have done so.” 

Arthur agreed with him perfectly, but did not consider 
it wise to express himself to that effect in just so many 
words, so he merely uttered a commonplace “thank you,” 
trusting the subject would end there. But the old man was 
not willing to have it so ; he wished to learn all the par- 
ticulars of his friend’s death, (he was in Florida when it 
occurred), and when Arthur had given him as graphic a 
description as he could of it, he looked at him quizzically 
through his glasses once more and said : 

“There is no doubt at all about it; I should have known 
you before.” 

Arthur winced. Was the old gentleman taking advant- 
age of his position and taunting him with his flight to Nor- 
way? 

Did he know positively that he had gone in order to frus- 
trate the plan so dear to his heart at that time? It seemed 
so, certainly, and his own father must have explained the 
situation to him more or less fully. Arthur acknowledged 
to himself that he had been a fool, but that was the last 
reason in the 'world why he should acknowledge it to this 
man. He thought him little short of impertinent, but still, 
he was at a disadvantage, so he exclaimed, warmly : 

“For my part, Mr. Clayton, nobody regrets the delay so 
much as I.” 

This speech evidently pleased Mr. Clayton, for he in- 
stantly held out his hand to Arthur. 


“i BELIEVE I'M IN LOVE. 


77 


“Better late than never, though, eh? And we will try to 
make up for lost time. Dine with us to-morrow night, if 
you’ve no engagement. Eight o’clock.’’ 

Engagement! What engagement would he not have 
broken to accept this one? 

“You are very kind,’’ he replied. “I shall come with 
pleasure.’’ 

“Dick was right,” he decided, mentally, “if ever there 
was a man who made an out-and-out ass of himself, that 
man is Arthur Eldridge, and I only hope it isn’t too late to 
make up for ‘lost time,’ as the old gentleman suggested.” 

The ormolu clock on the mantel was just striking eight 
in its subdued, silvery tones as Arthur was ushered into 
Mr. Clayton’s spacious drawing-room the next evening. 

His host greeted him cordially. 

“Glad to see you, my boy,” he said. “Helen, I want to 
introduce the son of an old friend of mine — Mr. Eldridge, 
my sister, Mrs. Montgomery Dyking.” 

Arthur bowed low before a stately, white-haired lady, 
in black satin and diamonds, and then turned to speak to 
Miss Clayton, who stood beside her aunt. 

He had never seen her in strict evening dress before, and 
he concluded then and there that she was as beautiful a 
woman as he had ever met. The pose of her head, the soft 
languor of her eyes, the dewy lips smiling at him, all com- 
bined to entrance him in a most peculiar manner. More or 
less handsome women cross every man’s path during life, 
and Arthur had been no exception to the rule, but, al- 
though lovely faces had charmed him occasionally and had 
even held him captive for a time, none had ever affected 
him as Miss Clayton’s did. Her every movement was grace 
to him, and her silvery laughter, so soft and subdued that 


78 


“J BELIE VE I'M IN LOVE ; 


one had almost to listen for it, was sweeter than music to 
his ears. She attracted him to her side like a magnet, and 
when there, he experienced a feeling of absolute content- 
ment. 

She was wearing a costume of rose-color, combined with 
rich black lace. It revealed a neck and shoulders of which 
any queen might have been proud. The hair rippled back 
from her forehead, in its own bewitching fashion, and was 
coiled in a half careless, half studied knot at the back of 
her neck. About her throat was clasped a string of pink 
pearls with a diamond fleur-de-lis pendant. 

There was time to exchange only a few words, before 
the butler threw open the dining-room and announced that 
“dinner was served.” 

Gertrude laid her hand upon Arthur’s arm, while Mr. 
Clayton escorted a very old lady in dark ruby velvet — a 
Mrs. Crossman Stanmore, a distant relative of his, in to 
dinner. Six in all sat down. , 

The dining-room, the largest room in the house, was ob- 
long in shape and sumptuously appointed, even for these 
days of extravagance and varied taste. The ceilings were 
unusually high and paneled in carved oak, with which the 
walls also were wainscoted. At the farther end were two 
heavy arches over spaces originally intended for doors, 
perhaps, but which were left open with the exception of a 
fluted column dividing them. Through this could be seen 
the conservatory, filled with tropical trees and plants that 
half concealed a fountain, built in the shape of a pile of 
rocks. 

Arthur made up his mind, as the courses were served, 
that his host was a thorough believer in appeasing the 
wants of the inner man in the most approved manner. 


“/ BELIEVE I'M IN LOVE.” 


79 


Plates were removed and replaced by others in the twink- 
ling of an eye, while wines of the choiest vintages filled 
the glasses. 

Arthur had not yet reached the age when a man, if he 
does not make an idol of his stomach, at least has every 
consideration for it, but, as a general thing, he was fond of 
good things to eat, and moreover, he realized very quickly 
when they were set before him. 

There were delicacies in season and out of season, but 
for some reason his appetite failed him almost utterly. He 
might as well have been dining off bread and water, for 
all the attention he paid to his meal. He vaguely realized 
that the canvas-back ducks were cooked, or rather un- 
cooked, in a way that would have made Hick’s mouth 
water, had he been there, and that the champagne frappe 
dropped from the bottle like snow-flakes, but that was 
about all. He could, however, have described the rings ' 
which graced the pretty hands opposite him, or have told 
how many there were of them, if asked, the following day. 
He was in the realms of dreamland, all through the din- 
ner, as he acknowledged to himself with shame afterward. 
He answered at random and did not volunteer half a dozen 
remarks from oysters to dessert. 

Turkish coffee was served in the conservatory, and Miss 
Clayton sipped hers, sitting beside him, watching the fish 
dart to and fro in the water at their feet. 

When she had finished she leaned back and chatted with 
him on a dozen different topics in an easy, intelligent man- 
ner that quite completed her conquest of him. 

It was after twelve when he took his leave. 

“A pretty sort of impression I must have made on them 
all,” he remarked, to himself, as he was smoking his last 


80 


“I BELIEVE I’M IN LOVE.” 


cigarette that night. “A man asks me to his house to din- 
ner, and instead of trying to make myself agreeable, I sit 
staring in the most vapid fashion at his daughter all 
through the meal. Dick was not far wrong when he said I 
acted ‘moon-struck.’ The fact of the matter is,” he went 
on, knocking his ashes on the Bokara rug with his little 
finger, ‘‘I believe I’m in love.” 

And he went to bed quite satisfied w T ith himself for hav- 
ing come to a conclusion at last. 


“I CANNOT MARRY YOU." 


81 


CHAPTER IX. 

“i CANNOT MARRY YOU.” 

The following morning his conclusion pleased him still 
more, and before his necktie was arranged he had reached 
a decision. 

He was very jolly all that day, and although it was an 
unusually dull morning at the stock exchange, he looked 
as happy as if each of his customers had made a fortune, to 
say nothing of himself. 

“Plenty doing in Eldridge’s office to-day, I should judge, ” 
remarked one of his fellow-brokers, enviously, to a friend 
at luncheon. “He’s as chipper as though he’d struck a 
mine.” 

“Is that so?” responded the other. “Why, I haven’t seen 
him on the floor all the morning. He must have sent his 
orders over there.” 

“Oh, well, money is nothing to him. I believe he likes to 
pay commissions. Helps the other pooi devils along, you 
know.” 

“Like you and me, Parsons.’" 

“Yes, poor devils like us, Barnett.” 

“He’s a lucky dog, that Eldridge. ” 

“Rolling in it.” 

One night about three weeks later Arthur found himself 
again in the balmy atmosphere of Mr. Clayton’s drawing- 
room, after first having asked for the ladies. 

“Mr. Clayton is out, is he not?” he said to the butler, as 
the latter took his hat and stick. 

“Yes, sir, he dined out, Mr. Eldridge,” responded the 


man. 


82 


“/ CANNOT MARRY YOU.' 


Arthur was not surprised at this information, as he had 
caught a glimpse of the old man’s bald head, nodding over 
the evening paper at the club not twenty minutes before, 
hut had carefully avoided him for reasons of his own. 

“Aunt Helen has gone to bed with a headache, and papa 
is out, hut can I entertain you for a little while? I am 
sorry ” 

Miss Clayton had entered noiselessly and stood beside 
him. Arthur dropped the hit of Gubbio ware he had been 
examining and murmured his regrets as he shook hands 
with her. But his eyes belied him (though she wisely asked 
no information of them), and his pulse heat high and his 
cheek grew warm at the thought of a tete-a-tete with her. 

She was laughing and flushed, a picture to gaze upon, in 
her trailing blue silk, and dainty Louis Quinze slippers. 

She seemed in excellent spirits that evening, better than 
he had ever seen her, and her light laughter rang out fre- 
quently — too frequently, Arthur thought, as he himself felt 
so serious. Perhaps he showed something of his state of 
mind in his face, and she, woman-like, was determined to 
bring his spirits up to the same key as her own. Possibly 
— but no, she could not suspect what he had come to say, 
or she would not be sitting there chatting unconcernedly 
about everything under the sun, and not give him a chance 
to speak. Moreover, he believed — well, he would make an 
opportunity. 

“Miss Clayton,’’ said he, at last, during a pause in the 
conversation, “do you know how many times I have been 
here?” 

“What an odd question!” she exclaimed, gayly. “No, I 
confess I haven’t kept track; it isn’t polite. A dozen, per- 
haps.” 


“I CANNOT MAliliY YOU. 


83 


“This makes my fifteenth call,” he returned, gravely. 

“Really? Well, I trust you may make fifteen more. Papa 
has taken quite a fancy to you, you know.” 

“I’m immensely flattered, I assure you, but whether I 
continue to come here depends upon you, however.” 

“Upon me?” 

She turned her merry eyes upon him defiantly. 

“Upon you,” he repeated, desperately, “and I believe 
you know what I’m about to say, Gertrude.” 

She put up her hand with a little gesture, but he neither 
could not or would not see it. 

He leaned over, and taking both of her hands in his own, 
looked straight into her face, compelling her eyes to meet 
his. 

“Yes,” he continued, calmly, “I do not believe you will 
be astonished when I tell you that I think you are the dear- 
est, sweetest woman I ever met, and that I love you with 
all my heart.” 

The rich blood dyed her face and neck, and she struggled 
to release her hands. 

“Mr. Eldridge ” she began, her whole expression 

changing. 

“And you,” he pursued, “are you wholly indifferent to 
me? May I hope ” 

“No, do not say it, ’’she said, quietly, drawing herself 
away and rising to her feet. “I know what you would say, 
Mr. Eldridge, and I wish to spare you the pain of a re- 
fusal.” 

“A refusal?” he murmured, hoarsely. “You will not 
marry me?” 

“I cannot marry you,” she answered, in a low, firm 
voice. 


84 


“/ CANNOT MARRY YOU. 


“You do not care for me,’’ he uttered, his face flushing 

crimson, “and I had begun to believe ” 

He paused, but she remained silent 
“You do not make me any reply,” he went on, bitterly, 
“but I suppose none is necessary, under the circumstances. 
In this case silence does not give consent,” he added, with 
a short, hard laugh. “There would be no truth in my say- 
ing that I anticipated this, Miss Clayton, for conceited as 
it may sound, I did flatter myself that you thought a little 
of me. No doubt I was a fool, and so I get only what I de- 
serve. You were kind enough to receive me when I called 
and to prefer, apparently, to talk to me when there were 
other men around, but of course that’s no reason why I 
should take it for granted you would marry me. Forgive 
me for having fallen into so unpardonable an error — I will 
trouble you no more.” 

She laid her hand on his arm, but he paid no attention to 
this conciliatory movement on her part. A bright color 
came into her cheeks, but she was not daunted. 

“You are angry,” she said, “and there is no occasion for 
it. Do not go away thinking ill of women in general, and 
of me in particular. Be just, at any rate. Perhaps I have 
shown a preference for your society, and have given you 
more of my time than I have to other men, but, as you ac • 
knowledge, that is no reason I should wish to live with 
you the remainder of my life. I am natural, and I try to 
be sincere — I despise a woman who trifles with men's 
affections, and I would consider it lowering myself to do 
so. But,” she went on, seeking his eyes for the first time, 
“men are so conceited, they imagine they have only to ask 
to receive — to beckon, and we fly to their arms. There is 
no happy medium, in their estimation.” 


85 


“/ CANNOT MARRY YOU.” 

Arthur gazed at her ; he had never seen her so animated 
or so earnest. 

“Gertrude, ” he said, “upon my word, I fail to follow 
you. I have loved you since the day — the hour we met and 
what is more natural than that I should wish to have you 
for my wife? Why are you defending yourself? Have I 
accused you of trifling with me? Unless I do, it would be 
better, it seems to me, for you to simply give me my an- 
swer, which you have kindly done (this was said bitterly) 
and say no more. I trust I am man enough to keep what- 
ever harsh opinions of your sex I might have after this to 
myself. Rest assured, although I have been silly enough to 
put myself in the unenviable position of rejected suitor, I 
shall have grace enough to hide my chagrin.” 

“And forget me?” 

She had turned her face away from him, and in the gath- 
ering twilight he could see only the outline of her profile. 

“And forget you — if I can. But that, you understand, to 
one of my temperament,” with emphasis on the personal 
pronoun, “is not a matter of a week.” 

“But it is best,” she spoke in a cold, almost harsh voice. 
“You allow that?” 

“As you say so,” he replied, bowing slightly. “It is for 
you to accept or decline — and you have declined. ’ ’ 

There was a moment’s silence, and then he spoke again. 

“You have acted according to your own feelings, ” he 
continued, “which is right, of course, and in any case I 
have no right to complain — that goes without saying. I do 
not ask whether there is already one who possesses your 
heart — I might, but I would rather not know. We may 
have met too late.” 

She made no reply. 


86 


I CARNOT MARRY YOU, : 


“So,” he concluded, “I will only wish you all the good 
things of this life. Good-by.” 

And with these words, he hurriedly left the room. 

It was snowing, as he walked up the street, and freezing 
hard, but he did not notice the weather. There was a 
numbness in his whole body which was not caused by the 
cold. Heavy at heart, and with thoughts which accorded 
well with the gloominess of the evening, he made his way 
to his apartments. 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


87 


CHAPTER X. 

MAKING A PROMISE. 

“Caesar,” said Mr. Forrest, late the same night, or 
rather, early the next morning, to the bent old negro who 
had been his valet for years, “do for heaven’s sake put 
these rooms in order ; they look as though a cyclone had 
struck them.” 

The man gazed solemnly around him as if, until that in- 
stant, the idea that all was not quite as it should be, had 
not occurred to him. 

“Yes, sah, ” he answered, touching the spot on his head 
where the woolly top-knot had once been. “Things don't 
look ’xactly ’spectable ’bout heah; dat’s a fac’, sah.” 

Dick had been entertaining a few convivial friends at 
supper, as might have been presumed from appearances. 

The apartment consisted of four rooms, separated from 
each other by bamboo portieres, the largest being used in 
the double capacity of card and reception-room. It was 
furnished in oriental style, with low, inviting looking 
divans, covered with Turkish embroideries and rugs. The 
windows, facing on the street, were latticed and draped 
heavily. In fact, most of the light which was shed over 
this quaint den, either by day or night, was given by a 
large, wrought-iron lamp of unique design, and a few dim, 
religious tapers in mysterious holders, which graced the 
four corners of the room. A narghil, more for ornament 
than use, stood on a stand at the head of one of the divans, 
and a grotesque monster, mounted on a bronze jar, emitted 
clouds of incenso through his horrid, wide-open jaws. 


88 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


The rest of the suite, bedroom, dining-room, and library, 
was finished in hard wood and tastefully decorated. Of 
these, the last mentioned, was perhaps the most cozy, with 
its stained glass window and gayly bound volumes. 

Just now, however, the place was topsy-turvy ; Soiled 
plates, napkins, and wine bottles were any where and every- 
where. There was an orange under a chair, and a banana 
skin, browned by the close atmosphere, lay on the keys of 
the piano. A deck of cards, with the jolly “jack” faced, 
smiled from the empty grate, where it had been thrown. 

“How much stuff was disposed of, Caesar?” asked Mr. 
Forrest, throwing open a window to freshen the air inside. 

“Sah?” returned the negro, quickly. 

“I mean, was there much eaten and drank,” explained 
his master. 

Caesar, who was clearing off the table, paused to reflect. 

“Well, sah, dey was six bottles of champagne to start 
with,” he began, slowly. 

“Not so bad among so many men,” muttered Dick. 

“An’ fo’ col’ chickens,” continued Caesar, dropping the 
table-cloth to count on his fingers. 

“Four?” ejaculated Mr. Forrest, “it seems incredible.” 

“two bowls of lobster salad; t’ree Rhine wines ” 

“There, that will do,” said Dick, “you’ve told me enough 
to disgust me now.” 

“ and one bottle of whisky,” finished Caesar. 

“What tanks men are!” soliloquized Dick. “Are you 
sure every one is gone, Caesar?” 

“Yes, sah. Mr. Clifford he was restin’ on de lounge in 
de library, but I got him out at last. He did not care to go, 
fust off, but I kin’ coax him like, and he went, too.” 

“And to think, ” mused Dick, as the negro shuffled off 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


89 


with a pile of plates on his head and an armful of glasses, 
“that we actually put ourselves outside of so much food! 
Ugh ! it’s sickening to realize what gluttons men will make 
of themselves.” 

Presently Caesar, who had succeeded in restoring some- 
thing like order to the library, reappeared. 

“Mr. Eldridge is out heah in de hall, sah,” he announced. 
“He’s on de stair.” 

But before he had chance to say any more, Arthur en- 
tered and threw himself heavily into a chair. 

“You, Arthur!” exclaimed Forrest, rising from the divan 
where he had lain down while Caesar was tidying up. 

“Yes, I,” was the rather gruff response. “Such an owl 
as you oughtn’t to be surprised at a visit at any hour. And 
it’s only twenty minutes past two.” 

“Just the shank of the evening, ” acquiesced Forrest, 
yawning, “and yet I feel as though it might be quite bed- 
time.” 

“You must have been having a rattling time here to- 
night, if appearances go for anything, ” pursued Arthur. 
“I saw Caesar struggling with a mountain of dishes out in 
the corridor. Bottles, too — a dozen, I should judge.” 

“Clifford and Flint wanted to bring those Western boys 
around here to see my rooms, and so I asked them to sup- 
per and a little game, and Cliff, as usual, became some- 
what the worse for wear as the hour grew late. Horrid 
bore; I’m glad they’re gone.” 

“And you? Did your share, I suppose?” 

“No, I scarcely touched a drop or a mouthful, would you 
believe it? I’ve had a beastly headache since four o’clock.” 

“So much the better.” 

“Eh?” 


90 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


“I mean that your brain’s clear— not that your head 
pains you, old chap. I’ve a piece of news for you. ” 

Forrest surveyed his friend intently and then said: 

“I don’t expect your news is good.” 

“Soothsayer!” uttered Arthur, with a short laugh. 
“How did you guess? Do I look so seedy?” 

“Well, I shouldn’t imagine, from your general appear- 
ance, that you feel as fresh as a daisy,” acknowledged Mr. 
Forrest, “nor as light as a cork.” 

“I don’t.” 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“Dick,” said Arthur, abruptly, “you forced my confi- 
dence when I was going away once before, and now I come 
of my own free will to give it to you. ” 

Dick made no remark as his friend vouchsafed this in- 
formation. 

“I’m all gone to pieces,” went on Arthur, gloomily. 

“What’s up this time?” 

Dick did not evince any excitement as he put this ques- 
tion, although he could plainly see that his friend had 
worked himself up into something very like a temper. 
Long acquaintance with this young gentleman had taught 
him that, the cooler he kept when Arthur was about to un- 
burden his mind to him, the sooner a sensible conclusion 
was reached. Dick preferred to put it in that way ; he de- 
spised “advice givers” and declined to believe that an 
“ignoramus at twenty makes a sage at seventy.” What- 
ever counsel he gave ( and he was very particular to whom 
he offered it'), was given in a manner so subtle and brother- 
ly that it was generally acted upon, or, at least, taken in 
the proper spirit. He saw at a glance, to-night, that Ar- 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


91 


thur was “all broken up,’’ as he would have expressed it, 
and he realized that he must be handled with gloves. 

Before waiting to hear the reply to his query, he unlocked 
a bottle of his choicest cognac and poured out some brandy, 
taking pains to dispose of the smaller quantity himself. 
But Arthur was too much engrossed in his own thoughts 
to notice such a detail as that, and swallowed his at a 
mouthful. 

Replacing his glass upon the table, Arthur said : 

“I may as -well come to the point. The last time I came 
to you, Dick, I was trying to escape a woman I didn’t know 
and didn’t care for; now I am going away because I do 
know and do care for her. Rather a mixed up state of 
affairs, isn’t it?” 

Dick removed his pipe from his lips. He always smoked 
a pipe late at night. 

“You refer to Miss Clayton?” he said, slowly. 

“Of course,” assented Arthur, impatiently; “to whom 
else? The woman who does up my shirts? Really, you are 
growing astute in your old age.” 

“You must bear in mind, my boy,” returned Dick, im- 
perturbably, “that you’ve not told me a syllable about this 
yet.” 

“I thought you knew; there are things one finds out of 
one’s self,” announced Arthur, captiously. 

“Oh, yes,” acknowledged Dick; “I confess I did suspect 
something of the sort, but ” 

“Come, come,” cried Arthur, “you can be so provoking, 
Dick, when you choose! What shall I do? She refused me 
to-night.” 

“Refused you?” repeated Dick. 

“Yes, and without pretending to give a reason for it. 


92 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


Confound it, women are such queer creatures! I wonder if 
there ever was one yet w T ho absolutely knew her own mind, 
or even tried to? What a hopeless task she would set her- 
self!” 

“Recollect,” rejoined Dick, guardedly, “I always held 
that they -were inexplicable, and furthermore, dangerous.” 

“And yet there must be some true ones among them,” 
declared Arthur. 

“How you blow hot and cold,” uttered Dick, smilingly. 
“No doubt there are, but as I say, a ‘true woman’ is the 
rarest combination in the world. Few of them take the pains 
to even try to comprehend their own natures, and if they 
did, they would probably suffer nervous prostration from 
the shock.” 

“You seem to hate the sex.” 

“Far be such presumption from me! On the contrary. I 
adore women — collectively, they are the ‘sugar and spice’ 
of life, but, individually, voila une autre chose 

“Clearly, Dick, you’ve never been in love,” said Arthur, 
moodily. 

“Make no mistake,” returned his friend, “I’ve had the 
disease scores of times, only it wasn’t fatal.” 

“Well, then, I don’t care a rap whether it proves fatal 
in my case or not; I’ve lost all interest in life.” 

“You’ll regain it.” 

“Dick,” said Arthur, solemnly, “I adored that girl.” 

“Let me feel your pulse,” uttered Dick. “It begins to 
look serious. But take heart; scores of men have been as 
deeply afflicted as you are, and have gotten over it and 
been sounder than ever. Depend upon it, love is a malady 
—a virulent disease, and should be treated as such.” 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


93 


4 ‘It may be so. And yet, if we cannot believe in women 
and trust them, in whom can we trust or believe?” 

‘‘In men, as a rule.” 

“Of course; I might have known your answer in ad- 
vance. But, Dick, an experience like this is enough to 
make one despise the -whole sex.” 

“Softly, my boy; one swallow doesn’t make a summer 
But tell me, did Miss Clayton encourage your attentions?” 

Arthur made a scornful movement. 

“I don’t pretend to understand what women consider 
‘encouragement.’ From her standpoint, I dare say not; 
from mine — why, Dick,” he continued, lowering his voice, 
his eyes growing tender, “I would have sworn she loved 
me. I saw it in a hundred different ways, and yet- ” 

“Perhaps she does love you in spite of what occurred to- 
night.” 

Arthur regarded his friend with disgust. 

“What reasoning!” he retorted, savagely. “No, she sim- 
ply wanted a little amusement, and she got it — at my ex- 
pense. ” 

“Possible, though not probable, I should say. She 
does not look like that kind of a woman, still,” thought- 
fully, “there may be somebody else, and you know she 
isn’t bound to acknowledge that fact to you under any cir- 
cumstances. ” 

Arthur’s face, pale and haggard, grew whiter. 

“That’s so, ” he said. “I thought of that, ” with a sigh. 
“All a woman can do when a man proposes to her, is tosa;y 
no, if she doesn’t want him, and surely we are big and 
strong enough to take care of ourselves after that, but at 
the same time it makes us writhe if we’re serious about it 
all. Oh, Dick,” he cried, in a broken voice, “you’ve no idea 


94 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


what thoughts have been torturing me to-night. I imagined 
— yes, I will say it, I imagined perhaps you had cut me 
out.” 

“I?” echoed Dick, with a bewildered air. 

“Yes, you. Is it so incomprehensible? You admired her 
so much that first day. How was I to know but that you, 
as well as I, had become infatuated with her, and that per- 
haps she preferred you. ” 

Dick looked blank a moment and then he burst into a 
loud laugh. 

“Arthur, ” he said, when he could straighten his face, 
“pause a little, and then tell me honestly if you think I am 
the sort of man a young girl like Miss Clayton would be 
apt to fall in love with?” 

Arthur obeyed, and then answered, nonchalantly : 

“I don’t know.” 

“You must be clean out of your senses. She is young, 
gay, and brimming over with life, while I — well, you know 
me pretty well, I think. Besides,” reproachfully, “do you 
believe me capable of a trick like that?” 

Arthur held out his hand, which the other took without 
hesitation. 

“You see, it’s preposterous, my boy,” Dick said, quiet- 
ly. “But then, when we’re in love our brains play all kinds 
of mad pranks with us. In point of fact, I haven’t seen 
Miss Clayton since the day her father was taken ill.” 

“Advise me what to do, Dick, won’t you?” Arthur asked, 
presently; “your brain is clear, and I’m so upset. You ad- 
vised me once before.” 

“And you didn’t follow my instructions.” 

“I will this time. I feel as helpless as a child and utterly 
hopeless.” 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


95 


“Will you do as I suggest?” 

“Try me.” 

Dick outlined a very elaborate pattern on the table with 
the paper-knife and did not respond at once. At length he 
spoke. 

“Are you willing to tell me, first, what she said when 
you proposed to her?” he asked. 

“Verbatim?” uttered Arthur, in consternation. 

“Certainly not,” returned Dick; “that would be a cruel 
and perhaps impossible, task to set an ardent lover. But 
as near as you can recollect.” 

Arthur complied with a melancholy air, and when he 
had finished Dick nodded his head wisely. 

“In your place, my boy,” he uttered, “I would simply — 
wait.” 

Arthur glanced at him sullenly. 

“Wait? for what, pray?” 

“For events to shape themselves.” 

“Upon my soul, Dick, you’re simply idiotic. Events have 
shaped themselves, I should judge,” he exclaimed, “and 
decidedly to my discomfort.” 

“Well, then, until they unshape themselves.” 

“Why will you persist in talking through your hat? 
What are you driving at? Are you suggesting that I go 
sniveling to her again and beg her to reconsider her deci- 
sion?” cried Arthur, derisively. “That would be a decent, 
high-spirited sort of performance! She’d have no end of re- 
spect for me in future, of course.” 

“Not so fast,” said Dick, calmly. “Perhaps I see a little 
more clearly than you do.” 

“Perhaps, but pardon me, if I say that I don’t believe it.” 

“You’re not in condition to believe much of anything 


9G 


MAKING A PROMISE. 


you don’t wish to to-night,” stated Dick, quietly. “So ap- 
parently I’m wasting words. Oh, well, you needn’t rely 
upon my judgment, you understand it may be worth sim- 
ply nothing, hut you know my motives are of the best, ’ ’ 

“Pshaw! that goes without saying.” 

“So no harm’s done, and we’ll drop the subject,” he con- 
cluded. 

Arthur sat with drooping head, the picture of despair. 
Finally, with an effort. 

“You’re right, old man,” he said, forlornly, “I’m of no 
earthly use ; I could hardly tell the day of the week ; so 
take me in hand, won’t you? There’s a good fellow, and I 
promise to do just as you direct. ” 

Dick refilled his pipe, which was going out. 

“That’s right,” he remarked, apparently satisfied. 


WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 


97 


CHAPTER XI. 

WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 

What more difficult task, I ask, can a man set himself 
than to try to amuse, and keep amused, another member of 
his own sex who has been disappointed in love? 

Where can there be found a more thankless, disagree- 
able, uncomfortable creature than such a one? He is a bur- 
den to himself, and (unless he be a grand exception to the 
common rule) to all those around him. 

Men are universally accepted to be the sterner sex, and I 
do not deny them that privilege, but that they are the 
stronger morally, I may be allowed to state, I have my 
doubts. Nine women out of ten, to whom the course of 
true love has proved rough and thorny, will live their ac- 
customed daily lives as calmly and placidly as ever, and 
show little of the heart sorrow they endure in their faces 
or actions. But alas! with the “masters of creation,” it is 
apt to be otherwise. Should the fair one frown instead of 
smile, or, if she smile, do so for a hated rival’s benefit, 
why, my lord promptly proceeds to take the world into his 
confidence by showing how piqued he is. The first unwit- 
ting offender who comes within reach is liable to receive 
upon his or her head all the vials of a wrath seething 
within the manly bosom and only awaiting a victim. It is 
quite the same thing whether it be the tax collector or a 
friend requesting him to dine, each, individually, should 
know better than to bother him at such a time, etc., etc., 
etc. 

Try to cheer him up or sympathize with him, and he 


98 


WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 


takes it as an impeitinence; be brusque, and ketliinks you 
indifferent, just when be needs your consideration the 
most In short, deal with him according to the brightest of 
the lights given you and be thankful if you reach anything 
approaching a satisfactory result. 

Dick Forrest did not rest content with merely giving his 
friend advice ; he followed it up with actions. Realizing 
that Arthur was very dejected, he strove to make him for- 
get his trouble in everyway he could. He never mentioned 
Miss Clayton’s name unless Arthur brought it up himself, 
and when, at times, he noticed that he appeared to be 
smarting particularly under her late treatment of him, or 
that he was listless and disinterested, he did his best to 
cheer him up, with, of course, varied success. Sometimes 
Arthur would rail bitterly against women, declaring that 
they were all alike, unworthy of any man’s devotion and 
that he was better off single than married ; then again he 
would maintain a moody silence. 

Dick preferred to find him in the former mood, and al- 
ways grew eloquent when Arthur discoursed in this strain. 
He agreed with him perfectly, he said. It w^as foolish to 
waste love upon women, not exactly because they were un- 
worthy, but because they were unable to appreciate it. It 
was far wiser, he argued, to amuse yourself wfith them if 
you were so inclined, and quit before the thorn had pricked, 
for if they did not laugh at you, when they saw that you 
were ready to make any sacrifice for them, they did you a 
greater unkindness still by accepting you and surfeiting 
you afterward with their presence. 

What difference does it make, he inquired, ten years 
after the knot has been tied, whether you have married a 
blonde or a brunette? For that horrible demon ennui is cer- 


WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 


99 


tarn to step in sooner or later and claim you for its own. If 
your wife has blue eyes, you wish they were brown ; if 
dark, you find yourself with a decided preference for those 
of a celestial tint, and so on. The most ardent lover is cer- 
tain, finally, to look back upon his former infatuation as a 
feverish dream — if, indeed, he does not regard it as worse. 
If Arthur would but consider, he would be convinced that 
the abrupt ending of his affairs with Miss Clayton, charm- 
ing as she indisputably was, might prove a blessing, after 
all, and in future, if he should take yet a little more of his 
counsel, he would regard women as articles of luxury, too 
expensive for any sensible man’s purse. 

He said all this and rang the changes upon it so many 
times that at last it began to take effect. Arthur did not 
become cynical, nor did he eschew society, and it was far 
from Dick’s intention that he should. He went about see- 
ing and meeting women and even paying little attentions 
to such as appealed to his languid fancy. But, to his great 
satisfaction, Dick soon discovered that the fairest faces and 
the most bewitching manners, alike, failed to make more 
than a fleeting impression upon him; he seemed proof 
against all. 

If the truth were known, however, although he preached 
and warned at every opportunity, deep down in his heart 
Dick regretted the turn Arthur’s love affair had taken. He 
believed in him so thoroughly and admired him so honest- 
ly that it was incomprehensible to him how any girl, whom 
he chose to favor, could fail to respond. As for Gertrude 
Clayton, if ever he had read sincerity in any woman’s face, 
lie was sure he had read it in hers. She a coquette, with 
those soft, frank eyes? He could not bring himself to credit 
it, and yet he well knew that the most despicable charac- 


100 


WOMEN ARE WITCHER. 


ters were often most highly favored by nature. Dick could 
not understand it and simply would not try. No doubt, on 
the whole, Arthur had made a lucky escape, if he would 
only regard it so — marriage was such a lottery, always. 
But still, in this particular case, if brought to the point, 
Dick would have been forced to acknowledge that he more 
than half believed this match might not have proved an 
unhappy one. But now there seemed absolutely no chance 
whatever of Fate’s trying what she could do to make or 
mar their lives ; she was balked at the start. For his part, 
Dick inclined to the opinion that, occasionally, the natural 
course of events is the most satisfactory in the end, and 
that either to force, or attempt to avoid events, is frequent- 
ly a mistake, and of this he tried to convince the more im- 
petuous Arthur. 

Keep cool and act with reference to the cards Fate sees 
fit to deal you, he urged. There are just as many hearts 
and diamonds as there are clubs and spades in the pack, 
and the goddess being a woman, will not always frown, lest 
you think her unable to smile. And to this constant press- 
ure Arthur yielded somewhat; his spells of despondency 
grew shorter and less frequent, and, one day, when he 
asked Dick to help him to make up a party to go South on 
his yacht as soon as she could be put into commission, the 
latter rejoiced exceedingly. He concluded that Arthur was 
beginning to “come around” very nicely, as he had be- 
lieved he would, and, it may be inferred, he lost no time in 
assisting him to make out his list. 

Dick did not leave him to himself any more than he could 
help, fully comprehending that a man in his feverish frame 
of mind, frequently either does something rash, or else 
becomes morose, and Arthur grew to lean and depend upon 


WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 


101 


Trim more than he lealized. They walked, rode, or drove 
together in pleasant weather and were generally to be 
found at the club when outdoor exercise was out of the 
question. Occasionally, when they received invitations to 
the same houses, Dick would urge Arthur to accept — to 
bear him company, he would say — and in this way he con- 
stantly kept new faces bofore him and forced new acquaint- 
ances upon him. But few pleased him for any length of 
time, and the unrest which was taking possession of him 
became daily more difficult to cope with. To really interest 
him seemed an almost impossible task, and although he 
evidently strove to do his share in gay company, his laugh 
had an artificial ring to it which roused all the sympathy 
in Dick’s kind heart. By common consent Miss Clayton’s 
name became a dead letter between them, and at last Dick 
began to hope his efforts were beginning to bear fruit. But 
one night, at a fashionable “crush,” the w T edding of a 
young society belle, Dick caught a glimpse of her just 
ahead of them. Instinctively glancing at Arthur, who was 
beside him, he saw him turn pale, set his teeth hard, and 
stop short. Dick’s heart sank ; he knew he had labored in 
vain. 

One brisk morning in January, as they were riding in 
the Park together, walking their horses and conversing, 
Dick descried her just ahead coming around a curve. She 
wore a light cloth habit, which fitted her to perfection, and 
she was mounted on a spirited gray horse. She was giving 
her entire attention to the animal, which was prancing and 
curveting, having just been startled by something real or 
imaginary. Behind her, at a respectful distance, followed 
a groom on a fine black cob. j 

Dick wondered if she had espied them and also whether 


102 


WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 


Arthur knew of her proximity. One look at him satisfied 
him that he did. How keen are the eyes of love ! 

Arthur had reined in his hunter sharply, as though to 
heat a retreat, but it was too late— a meeting could not he 
avoided now. 

She had been so occupied in the management of her own 
fretting steed that she did not see them until they were 
only a few feet apart ; then she lifted her head, flushed 
crimson, and bowed slightly, almost haughtily. 

Turning in his saddle, Dick saw that she was galloping 
swiftly out of sight. 

Arthur brought his mare to her hind legs with a jerk as 
she shied at a squirrel darting across the road. 

It was one of those delightful, balmy days which we oc- 
casionally have in February, and •which almost deceive us 
into believing that winter is gone. The snow had all melted, 
and the sun glowed as warmly as in summer. More than 
one robin, beguiled from his hiding-place by the soft air, 
chirped in the leafless trees or searched for food among the 
yellow grasses. 

They rode on in silence for a few moments, and then 
Dick spoke. 

“She was looking uncommonly well to-day,” he re- 
marked, casually. “Some women do show off best in the 
saddle, that’s a fact.” 

“Miss Clayton looks well any where, ” responded Arthur, 
carelessly. 

“Dused handsome woman,” observed Dick, slyly. 

“Very,” agreed Arthur, shortly. 

Presently they turned into an unfrequented bridle path, 
and then Dick took a furtive look at Arthur, seeing there 
what he had dreaded to see — an expression of utter depres- 


WOMEN ARE WITCHES. 


103 


sion and’ sadness. The bridle lay loose upon his animal’s 
neck, and she was taking her own pace. Her rider’s head 
w T as bowed on his breast, and he was buried in thought. 

“Well, old man,” began Dick, bluffly. 

“It’s no use,” was the dreary response, “I may as well 
learn that it’s folly for me to attempt to convince myself 
that I have forgotten her; I haven’t, and I never can. The 
sight of her has brought back all the old feeling and made 
me realize how incomplete my life is without her. Dick, I 
am madly in love with that girl and try to deceive myself 
as I may, her image is not effaced from my mind.” 

Dick heaved a deep sigh. 

But something he had seen in her face, as they passed, 
compelled him in honesty to make this reply: 

“Is it so? Who knows, then, but all may yet come right 
between you? You recollect I have never ceased to beg you 
to have patience.” 

Inwardly, however, he muttered : 

“It is of no use for a man to attempt to undo the work a 
woman has done. They are witches who burn the earth 
■svherever they set their feet. Good Lord, deliver me from 
their clutches.” 


1C4 


THE RESCUE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE RESCUE. 

One day, about three weeks after the events narrated in 
the last chapter, as Arthur was slowly sauntering up Fifth 
avenue, his attention was attracted by a little scene which 
was being enacted in one of the side streets, only a short 
distance from the avenue. 

His quick eye took in the situation at once. 

A lady, out walking with her dog, had been brutally at- 
tacked by those licensed thieves known as “dog catchers.” 
The dog, a fine Caniche, with his taw T ny coat cut in the 
fanciful manner so popular for that kind of a canine, had 
been snatched up, in spite of the light chain which hung 
from his neck, and was being borne by two of the men to 
the wagon a few yards away. 

The lady, pale with apprehension and dismay, stood 
speechless. 

A third worthy was seated in the vehicle, ready to drive 
off as soon as the dog should be safely caged, and that 
probably would be the end of it so far as she was concerned. 

The pair, chuckling audibly, had almost reached the 
wagon, with its number conspicuously painted in blatfk 
figures on its dash-board, with their struggling victim, 
when they were unexpectedly interfered with. 

“Drop that dog!” commanded Arthur. 

Neither of the rascals vouchsafed a reply. 

“Let him go, I say !” shouted Arthur, approaching the 
wagon. 

“It’s none of your business, and we won’t do no sich 


THE RESCUE. 


105 


thing,” answered one of the men, flatly, glaring fiercely at 
the speaker. ‘‘We’re actin accordin’ to de law. Dedog ” 

The dog, howling with fright, was landed in the cage by 
this time. 

Quick as a flash Arthur sprang to the head of the horse 
and seized the bridle. 

“Once more I say let that dog loose, or I'll shoot your 
horse dead in his tracks!” he cried, again, and made a mo- 
tion, with his right hand, toward his hip pocket. 

The rascals hesitated a second ; then, frightened by Ar- 
thur’s determined manner and attitude, they sullenly 
opened the door and released the bewildered animal, which, 
with a growl and a joyous bark, leaped to liis mistress’ 
feet. The baffled trappers jumped into the wagon and drove 
rapidly off amid the barks and yelps of the less fortunate 
beasts already imprisoned behind them. 

Arthur was about to address the lady when the smile 
froze on his lips ; he saw she was no other than Gertrude 
Clayton. 

She had recognized him first, and bad had time to recover, 
in a measure, from the embarrassment of her position. Com - 
mon politeness required some recognition of his courtesy, 
and she even extended her hand. 

“You have been more than kind, Mr. Eldridge, ” she ut- 
tered, with emotion, “and I do not know how to thank 
you.” 

“Pray, do not attempt to, ” he answered. “If I have been 
of any service to you, the pleasure is mine. Those men are 
rascals, most of them, whom the law, unfortunately, pro- 
tects. I have been informed that more than half the valu- 
able dogs they snatch up never reach the pound. Yours 
would be such a prize that I doubt if you would have been 


106 


THE RESCUE. 


able to recover him, had they once gotten away with 
him.” 

“It was so courageous of you, ’’she murmured again, 
‘‘and I know Bebee would have died of grief away from 
me.” 

Arthur raised his hat, as he might have done to any 
stranger, and continued his walk. 

How formal had been his tone! How indifferent his man- 
ner! He continued his way decidedly pleased with himself, 
for how was Miss Clayton to know that his heart was 
thumping against his ribs, in a manner quite unusual with 
that organ? He carried himself with more than his cus- 
tomary dignity and his tread was firmer than ever, but for 
some unaccountable reason when he looked up he found 
himself two blocks beyond the club. He retraced his steps 
and entered. The evening papers lay before him, and he 
glanced over them. There was probably the same amount 
of news in them as usual, and at any rate the financial col- 
umn was always interesting to him, but he scanned each 
sheet hurriedly and flung it aside, only to pick up another. 
All shared a common, ignoble fate; he could not fix his at- 
tention. Finally he ceased trying and relinquished himself 
to his thoughts. 

‘‘Your mail-phaeton, sir, is at the door.” 

The order he had sent to his stable at noon had complete- 
ly escaped his mind until this reminder by one of the serv- 
ants. He started up for his hat and coat with alacrity. A 
drive was just what he needed to “put him on earth” and 
chase away his vain reflections. 

Why, he mused, as he took his seat behind his high- 
stepping chestnuts, with their arched necks and shiny 
coats, should he be unfortunate enough to be denied the 


THE R ESCUE. 


107 


one object he so coveted, and which would alone bring him 
contentment? He was young, rich, and as agreeable as the 
generality of his acquaintances, he thought. He would de- 
vote his life — which, so far, had been remarkably decent as 
men’s lives go — to Gertrude, were she his wife. But what 
good did all this ruminating do, since she said no? How- 
ever, if she was unable to return his affection he was 
thankful she had refused him ; so many women would have 
acted otherwise considering all he had to offer from a 
worldly point of view — the only one most women take. 
There was no mistake about it, it certainly was a strange, 
unsatisfactory sort of world. And he drew the whip 
sharply over Pluto’s glossy back, much to that animal’s 
surprise, for he had merely wished to show his excellent 
spirits by shying a little at a bit of paper in the middle of 
the street. 

The next morning about eight o’clock, as he was taking 
his coffee and eggs in his dressing-room, Peters, his valet, 
handed him his mail. 

He slowly drained his cup, buttered himself another slice 
of toast, and then turned the letters over listlessly with 
his knife. There were half a dozen in all— a club notice, 
two bills, an advertisement, a long letter from a slight ac- 
quaintance, begging for a short loan, and a note directed 
in a hand the sight of which made his heart beat faster. 

Amazement and delight held him motionless for a sec- 
ond, and then he hastily broke the seal. A faint odor of 
violets arose from the paper. 

“Dear Mr. Eldridge,” he read, breathlessly. “I think in 
my excitement to-day I failed to thank you properly for 
the kind assistance you rendered Bebee and myself. Will 


108 


THE RESCUE. 


you call, your first opportunity, that I may do so? I will 
be at home any afternoon this week except Saturday. 

“Sincerely, 

“Gertrude M. Clayton.” 

“Monday.” 

A wild joy, which seemed to numb all his faculties, took 
possession of Arthur as he read these few scribbled words. 
It was like an electric shock. He could scarcely believe his 
own eyes. 

This olive branch could mean but one thing — she would 
yet be his. Then came the chilling reaction ; why should a 
mere commonplace note signify anything after all? Was it 
not natural enough that she should wish to express her 
gratitude to poor Bebee’s rescuer in somewhat stronger 
terms than she had been able to do on the crowded street? 
And he sobered down at this reflection. But a second read- 
ing elated him once more. What necessity was there for 
anything further to be said on the subject between them, 
particularly under the circumstances? She had thanked 
him on the spot quite sufficiently for so slight a service. 
No, she desired to see him again ; he could not persuade 
himself otherwise. 

The intoxication of the first realization wearing off, he 
began to consider. 

When should he go? 

This was Tuesday ; any day but Saturday, she had sug- 
gested. Should he name Wednesday? He might seem too 
anxious, and even at this moment he could not pocket his 
pride altogether. Friday, then? It would be an age until 
that day ; he would compromise and make it Thursday, 
although he had already made a partial engagement for 
that afternoon. 

So he wrote her to that effect. 


PLEDGING HIS WORD . 


109 


CHAPTER XIII. 

, *: 

PLEDGING HIS WORD. 

How the next few days passed, Arthur never quite 
knew, hut they did pass somehow, and on Thursday at 
four o’clock his hansom was standing at his door. It was 
a cold, bleak day, and a drenching rain was falling, turn- 
ing the gutters into small rivers and beating relentlessly 
upon the backs of the horses. But Arthur paid so little 
heed, even to the weather, that Peters had to run after 
him with his mackintosh. He heaved a sigh of relief as lie 
handed his card to the butler and found himself ushered, 
once more, into the Clayton drawing-room. 

Dear old room, what an age it seemed since he had been 
in it last! How forcibly it reminded him of her! He could 
see her piano, with a pile of songs thrown carelessly upon 
it, through the open music-room door. He wondered what 
she was doing at that moment, and how she would act 
toward him. 

Before he had time to let his thoughts stray any further 
into the world of fancy, she entered from the hall with 
Bebee at her side. 

“You have come,” she said, in her low, even tones, “in 
answer to my note. It was good of you. We have been 
wishing ever since, Bebee and I,” and her manner became 
a trifle strained, “to thank you properly for saving us both 
countless tears.” 

“You make toe much of a very insignificant service,” he 
returned, courteously. 

She took a seat on a sofa, where her profile stood out 


no 


PLEDGING HIS WORD. 


clear as a cameo against the gray afternoon light and mo- 
tioned him to seat himself a little away from her. 

“Oh, no, Behee is so dear to me! You see, he was given 
me by an old friend in Brussels. Besides, he is so clever 
and devoted.” 

“Yes?” uttered Arthur, for want of something better to 
say. 

He was devouring her with his eyes. 

“You have heard, perhaps, that papa is ill again?” she 
■went on, abruptly changing the subject, resting one hand 
on the woolly head of the dog. 

“No,” replied Arthur, starting, “I had not. It’s not seri- 
ous?” 

“He’s better to-day. But papa is so childishly imprudent ; 
he cannot endure being shut up in the house, even when 
he is really ill. And you remember how it poured this 
morning?” 

“Of course,” assented Arthur, mendaciously, for of the 
state of the weather two hours previous he could have 
given no veracious account had his life been at stake. “It 
was simply beyond description.” 

“Yes, indeed; yet papa quite insisted that he must go to 
the office.” 

“Why, it was not fit for a dog to be out,” declared Ar- 
thur, which caused Miss Clayton to smile. 

Bebee nestled closer and closer to his mistress, until his 
head lay upon her lap, a picture of perfect contentment. 

“He has been ill for the last few days, ” she went on, 
“and the doctor said he must take great care of himself. 
That meant, of course, to stay at home, as the slightest ex- 
ertion is injurious to him when he has one of his attacks. 
But did he? No, indeed ; he simply declared he would not 


PLEDGING HIS WOHD. 


Ill 


make an old woman of himself — he knew best how he felt, 
and he told Edward to order the brougham at once. I was 
in despair, for the more w T e coaxed him — Aunt Margaret 
and I — the more determined he became. I really think, ’ ’ 
reflectively, “men can be very stubborn at times. 

“No doubt about it,” responded Arthur, heartily. “But 
what did you do?” 

“I just sat down and cried. You know, most men hate 
to see women in tears, so I gained my point, and he is up 
stairs now, reading. But it was a struggle.” 

Arthur was ill at ease. He felt that she was making con- 
versation in order to relieve the embarrassment, but this 
could not go on indefinitely ; a step must be taken by him 
as quickly as possible. It was out of the question that he 
should leave without finding out why she had sent for him. 
He owed it to his self-respect, and moreover, suspense was 
torture. 

“Miss Clay ton, ” said he, bluntly, after a short pause, 
“am I to believe you sent for me to come here to-day 
merely to be thanked for the trifling assistance I rendered 
you a few days ago?” 

Another pause — a longer one. 

“No,” she answered, at last. 

His question was pointed, and many a woman might 
have answered it differently. To tell the truth, her frank 
response startled him. 

“I will own,” she continued, without affectation, “that 
I had a purpose in sending for you again. It is better to bo 
honest, after all. Let me finish, ” she said, as beseemed 
about to speak. “When we parted, if you recollect, I would 
give you no reason for my refusal to become your wife. 
Yet I had two, either of which was sufficient. ” She stopped, 


112 


PLEDGING E1S W011D. 


but he obediently kept silence. “In spite of this fact, how- 
ever, you judged rightly when you said you had satisfied 
yourself that I had learned to care for you. But I had no 
conception of the depth of my interest in you. Since I had 
resolved not to marry you, I thought it only a question of 
time when I could live down the attachment which I knew 
was already growing in my heart for you,” she resumed. 
“And so I allowed you to go away from me supposing that 
I had tired of you, and had no thought of you beyond what 
I explained to you then. 

“Yes, in spite of my protestations to the contrary, that 
day you left me with the impression that I was precisely 
what I had assured you I was not. The fault was mine, of 
course, and I realized it then, but, I repeat, I believed it 
would end as so many affairs of the kind do, in a little bit- 
terness at first ; afterward regret, and then forgetfulness. 
But I overestimated my own strength, at least, for, ’ ’ and 
she lifted her eyes uncertainly to his face, as though to dis- 
cover whether or not to proceed. What she read there must 
have encouraged her, for she ended, hurriedly: “I confess 
it, I have missed you indescribably.” 

As she ceased she sank back upon the cushions, turning 
her face sharply from him. In an instant he was at be- 
side, a volume of words on his lips. But none found utter 
ance except those two so old, yet so comprehensive : 

“My darling!” 

At last, after months of gloom, the sunshine had burst 
upon him in all its glory. She loved him ; he heard it from 
her own lips. 

“Let me tell you now why I said no,” she said, present- 
ly, as the Caniche moved restlessly, evidently wondering 
whether this strange young man was going to leave any- 


PLEDGING MIS WO HD. 


113 


thing of his mistress’ hand when he had finished with it. 
“I have had so much time to reflect, and I have come to 
the conclusion that it is due you to learn. One morning I 
was in my dressing-room, examining a gown which I was 
to wear at a hall that evening, where I knew you were to 
he, and suggesting a few alterations, when all at once there 
was a rap on the door, and a note was handed in to me. I 
ascertained, afterward, that it had been left by a woman 
who might have been a lady or a servant; it was impossi- 
ble to tell which, as she w T as so muffled up. I opened it 
carelessly, not dreaming of its nature, and read ; but you 
shall see it for yourself.” 

And she handed it to him. It w a s very short and written 
in an odd, choppy hand. 

‘‘Miss Clayton,” it ran, ‘‘pause before you consent to be- 
come Arthur Eldridge’s wife. He is bound to another. If 
you doubt this, ask him if he is acquainted with Florence 
Delmar. Pause before it is too late, for no happiness can 
follow his marriage with you. I warn you.” 

That was all ; there was neither signature nor date. 

‘‘Being an anonymous communication, my first impulse 
was to destroy it,” she continued, ‘‘but somehow I didn’t, 
and indeed it preyed upon my mind to such an extent that 
I determined to mention it to you in some way, if possible, 
without permitting you to suspect. Do not misconstrue my 
meaning— I never doubted your sincerity for an instant, 
for why should I? You had not spoken of love to me, then. 
So, that night at the ball, I casually asked you if you had 
ever known a Miss Florence Delmar. Watching you closely, 
at the same time your whole face changed, the strangest 
expression passed over it. I was bewildered. You asked 
me where I had heard of her with a world of amazement 


114 


FLEDGING HIS WO HD. 


in your tone. I could not answer, so I laughed it off, and 
an instant later another partner claimed me, I chose the 
crowded, noisy ball-room on purpose. A week later you 
asked me to marry you, and you know what I said. I 
wished to tell you of this, but my pride prevented it ; this 
Florence Delmar stood like a phantom between us More- 
over, I reasoned that when you had gone you would pass 
out of my life, just like anybody else. Besides,” slowly, 
‘‘in Brussels I left a young count who hopes I may marry 
him some day, and when I first returned to America I 
thought I might, and so, after all, I concluded it would be 
as well if I did not see you any more. That was my other 
reason. The poor boy cares for me very much, and t am 
sure would be really wretched if I were to disappoint him. 
He gave me Bebee!” 

Arthur had risen to his feet while she was speaking, a 
cloud on his brow. 

“This letter, as anonymous communications always are, 
is an outrage, if I only knew ” 

“You deny that any such person has a claim upon you?” 
she said, almost timidly, as though ashamed of the doubt 
which the question implied. 

“I pledge you my word— I know no other oath— that no 
one in this world has the least shadow of a claim upon me,” 
he replied. “I should tell a falsehood if I were to deny that 
I ever knew this person, promptly, but I can explain ” 

Her clear eyes met his earnest^. 

“No,” she rejoined. “Your word entirely satisfies me. I 
ask no explanation. I trust you fully and entirely. Let this 
subject never come up between us again. I repeat, I came 
to the conclusion, after serious consideration, that I was 
wrong to suspect you of duplicity. I do not believe I should 


PLEDGING HIS WORD. 


115 


have entertained the thought for a moment, either, only, 
you know, you would not even meet me when our fathers 
— so desired that we should — meet.” 

She stammered over the last few words very prettily. 

‘‘So you knew I” he exclaimed, in surprise. 

“Knew?” she echoed, with a rippling laugh. “To he sure 
I did. Why not? It was a pet scheme of my father’s and 
yours always that we should marry. That I ridiculed it 
goes without sajdng, but still I naturally had a tiny little 
speck of curiosity to see you. Evidently you were not so 
inclined about me, however, for you fled from me as though 
I had been the plague. It was dreadfully cowardly of you, 
too — dreadfully, because, of course, no harm would have 
been done if we had been introduced ; I never should have 
married you had I lost my heart entirely (under the exist- 
ing circumstances), not for the world.” 

Arthur colored ; he was somewhat nettled at her light, 
bantering tone. 

“But,” she continued, “you never gave me the opportu- 
nity.” 

“My dearest, ” said Arthur, gravely, “I went away to 
avoid all complications; I knew no more about you than 
you did about me, so I concluded my best course was to 
leave the field entirely— for your sake as well as mine. The 
whole idea was so preposterous. I see plainly now that I 
acted unwisely, but you will forgive me, will you not? I 
rather imagine your father has ; at any rate, I sincerely 
trust so.” 

“With all my heart,” she answered, “and please bear in 
mind, I am only partly in earnest I could not reproach 
you ; I am sure you acted for the best, and all has turned 
out well.” 


116 


PLEDGING BIS WORD. 


“Yes,” he uttered, tenderly, “it has turned out as I never 
dared dream it would. But what of the other one — the 
count, away off there in Belgium? Must he go on hoping?” 

She was silent. 

“What of him, Gertrude?” he urged, gently. 

She put her hand in his, hesitated, and then looked up 
into his face. 

“Leave that to me,” she replied, in a tone that filled his 
cup of joy to the brim. 

As it may be imagined, the first person Arthur sought 
on leaving Miss Clayton that afternoon was Dick Forrest. 
But to his disappointment, he was not at his apartments. 
Just before dinner, however, he discovered him at the club, 
deep in a game of pool. 

“Come into the library when you’re through,” he whis- 
pered, “I want to see you particularly.” 

Dick was just about to make an important shot, but he 
looked up. 

“All right,” he answered, “it w T on’t take long, either. 
Harper is almost beaten now.” 

Arthur let his eyes wander somewhat impatiently the 
length of the table to where Dick’s opponent stood, learn 
ing on his cue. 

“Well, cut it short, won’t you? I must see you soon,” 
he said, and left the room. 

Fifteen minutes afterward Dick followed him into the 
library. He was occupied with a book and was not aware 
of Dick’s approach until he felt a strong hand upon his 
shoulder. He started almost guiltily. 

“Oh, it is you,” he uttered, closing the volume. 

“The same. You expected me, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” and he tossed the book on the table. 


PLEDGING UIS WORD. 


117 


“And your news?’’ questioned Dick, seating himself. 

“Oh, yes, my news,’’ returned Arthur; “it's about my- 
self, Dick.’’ 

“And I fancy it is not so hard to imagine what it may 
be, ’’ returned Dick. “You can scarcely contain yourself 
now.’’ 

“What do you mean?” 

They stared at each other for a few moments silently, 
and then Arthur burst out, joyously : 

“You can never guess if you try a year. I am the happi- 
est man in the world.” 

“No news,” observed Dick, quietly. 

“You knew it? When? How?” blankly. 

“By your beaming face. A full moon simply was ‘not in 
it’ with you, as you begged me for this interview,” re- 
sponded Dick, laughing at Arthur’s evident disappoint- 
ment. “You must learn to control your features better if 
you don’t wish to let everybody into your confidence. So, 
my boy, you have patched it up, after all, eh? And there 
are to be champagne and bride cake for those whose ranks 
you desert forever?” 

“Why the dickens do you talk in such a melancholy 
strain?” rejoined Arthur, resentfully. “I’m not going to 
be buried.” 

“Because ‘I know whereof I speak.’ Nearly all men who 
marry drop out. Some of them resign from their clubs the 
first thing.” 

“The weak ones, possibly; I don’t intend to, though, and 
I’m sure Gertrude wouldn’t ask it; she’s too sensible, and 
will soon understand what a mar s club is to him. Why, 
it’s to him what a woman’s milliner and dressmaker are 
to her,” said Arthur, with feeling. “Besides, my friends, 


118 


PLEDGING HIS WORD. 


who must- be hers, you know, shall be ever weicome at 
my home, and none more so than the very same old raven 
who is croaking now.” 

‘‘Ah, so many men have talked the same way, ” returned 
Dick, with something very like a sigh. “But what is it 
‘man proposes and woman imposes?’ They so seldom lead 
the sort of life they anticipate ; there are two wills, two 
heads, to be considered then. But I don’t mean to discour- 
age you, you understand. Upon my word, I congratulate 
you from the bottom of my heart, for I believe you have 
won the loveliest woman in New York. By Jove!” consult- 
ing the clock, “it’s after six.” 

Arthur’s face, which had grown serious, brightened 
again, and once more, in a thoroughly good humor, he 
dragged his old friend off to dinner at Delmonico’s and 
afterward to a play. 

As they were about to separate for the night Dick sud- 
denly put this question to his friend : 

“Look here; how about the trip South on your yacht?” 

“You may take the yacht and go to Iradia on her, if you 
choose. As for me, I’m too happy to care whether I ever 
set eyes on her again,” was the exuberant reply. 


MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 


119 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 

As the details of a wedding are of minor importance, ex- 
cepting to those directly concerned, I will merely state that 
of Gertrude Clayton and Arthur Eldridge, which occurred 
about three months after the announcement of their en- 
gagement, was celebrated with due pomp and ceremony. 
Had their wishes alone been consulted, it is possible that it 
would have been a quieter affair than it was, but Mr. Clay- 
ton overruled them, and he had his way. Gertrude was his 
only child, and this marriage had so long been the ardent 
desire of his heart. Therefore, he declared, he proposed it 
should be a noteworthy event. Poor old man ! They were 
thankful afterward that they had yielded to him, for a 
quick dispatch summoned them home from their wedding 
journey to his bedside. The excitement had proved too 
much for his enfeebled condition, and this time his symp- 
toms were very serious, as the family physician took pains 
to wire. As soon as Gertrude reached the house she estab- 
lished herself beside her father’s pillow, and from that hour 
assumed entire charge of him. 

“Please leave me alone,” she said, when they cautioned 
her that she would wear herself out and begged her to take 
some rest. 

“It is my father who is lying here, and who but I should 
care for him?” and nothing could change her determina- 
tion. 

“Do not make it any harder for me,” she would 
plead, when Arthur endeavored to persuade her to give 


120 MARRIAGE AKD DEATH. 

up her ceaseless vigil. “It is my duty. Consider if it were 
your father.’’ 

For two weeks the invalid lingered on, arousing hope in 
the breast, of his watchers one day, only to crush it the 
next. Occasionally he rallied suffi ciently to speak a -word 
or two to those about him, hut almost immediately a heavy 
stupor would overcome him, and he would lie motionless 
for hours, scarcely breathing. 

“Is there no chance for him to recover?” asked 
Gertrude, pathetically, one afternoon of the nurse in 
charge. 

“I cannot say that, Mrs. Eldridge,” w T as the reply. “We 
must always hope for the best. But ” 

At twilight the same day he passed away quietly, giving 
no sign that the end had come. At first, Gertrude refused 
to believe he was dead, and then, when at length she fully 
realized the blow which had fallen upon her, she was seized 
with the wildest hysterics. Nothing could calm her until, 
finally, in a state of utter exhausion, they put her to bed, 
where she lay too weak to move. 

The preparations for the funeral went on under the joint 
supervision of Arthur and Mrs. Dyking, hut Gertrude could 
take no part in them. She lay in a darkened room, in which 
no one spoke above a whisper while the funeral service 
was being read, only dimly comprehending what was go- 
ing on about her. 

“You must get your wife away from here as soon as ever 
she can be moved, ’ ’ stated the doctor to Arthur, a week 
after Mr. Clayton was laid in the family vault. “She will 
never regain her strength in this house. She must have 
complete change of air and scene. If she does not, I will 
not he responsible for lier.” 


MARRIAGE A ND DEA FH. 121 

Arthur’s feelings at this news can he better imagined 
than expressed. 

The suggestion that his beloved wife might he taken from 
him filled him with absolute terror. 

“You mean she is in danger, doctor?’’ he asked. 

“I do mean just that,” answered the doctor, grimly. 
“She is worn out in mind and body, absolutely, and she 
never was any too robust to begin with. Get her away as 
quickly as possible, if you wish to save her life. ” 

So saying, he took his departure. 

“Gertrude, Doctor Lambert and I have been having a 
little chat about you, and we agreed that a trip on the 
other side of the water would certainly do you no harm 
and perhaps might cheer you up a little. So I bought 
steamer tickets this morning for the Gascogne, May six- 
teenth. How does the idea please you?” said Arthur to his 
wife, shortly afterward. 

Gertrude lifted her eyes listlessly to his face. She was 
lying on the sofa in her dressing-room, with a scarcely 
touched breakfast beside her. She was pitiably thin, and 
her complexion, against the somber hue of her gown, was 
like wax. 

“It is all the same to me, dear,” she answered, trying to 
smile. 

“I thought we would go for a year at least,” pursued Ar- 
thur. “Spend the summer at the different European water- 
ing-places, and then take in Constantinople, Athens, and 
the Nile, and when the weather gets cold, return to Nice 
for the season.” 

As she made no reply to this tempting programme, he 
continued • 

“Then, as Doctor Lambert thinks you ought to have a 


122 


MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 


woman around you — some one beside your maid, I mean— 
I told him to suggest a person who would he the right sort 
of a companion for you. He says he knows no one better 
than the nurse who was sent to take care of your father. 
Did you notice her?” 

“Not particularly. I remember she seemed kind and gen- 
tle and had a very pretty face. ” 

‘‘Yes, Doctor Lambert knows about her personally. She 
is well educated and quite a lady in every respect. ’ 

“But why is it necessary for me to have her with me?” 
asked Gertrude, languidly. “I would much prefer not. She 
will only be in the way.” 

“Oh, no; on the other hand, I think she may prove quite 
useful. You’ve always had your aunt around you to look 
after you, you know, and there are a hundred little things 
she will be able to do for you which I would cut a sorry 
figure in even attempting,” responded Arthur, gayly. 

Doctor Lambert had especially warned him against al- 
lowing his wife to learn that he was worried about her, but 
with the usual blunt truthfulness of a successful physician 
he had informed him that it might be many months before 
she would entirely recover the strength and health she had 
lost. Her constitution had given way under the severe 
strain to which it had been subjected and only by careful 
watching and tender nursing could she be restored to any- 
thing like her former self. Arthur’s position was a very 
difficult one, and sometimes, when he saw his wife lying 
there so indifferent, with colorless cheeks and heavy eyes, 
the shadow of the blooming girl he had led to the altar so 
short a time before, he could have cried aloud in his an- 
guish. Yet for her sake he must assume a cheerfulness 
which was a hollow mockery. She was fading away day 


MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 


123 


by day before his ej r es, and even his love, which was never 
so strong as now, could not save her. He knew the doctor, 
although he tried to encourage him in his cold, professional 
way, really was at liis wits’ end, and merely suggested this 
trip in order to rid himself of the responsibility which the 
charge of Gertrude involved. In point of fact, the doctor 
and his brother physicians, when consulted, considered 
Mrs. Eldridge’s chances about even. She might recover, or 
she might not ; they had seen cases similar to hers, where 
the patient had been restored to health, and they had seen 
others where she had succumbed. Her nervous system 
seemed completely shattered, and she appeared to be abso- 
lutely indifferent as to whether her strength returned to 
her or not. That was the perplexing part of it, 

Arthur was the only one who could coax her to take 
either medicine or food, and even from him she would turn 
away wearily, at times. Then again she would follow him 
all over the room with her eyes, restless if he left her for 
five minutes. She could not sleep night or day in spite of 
the narcotics which were given her. 

“It would be better to have a woman— the right kind, 
you understand— with your wife when you go away. One 
who is thoroughly feminine, sympathetic, etc. You know 
what I mean. You see, women comprehend each other’s 
natures better than we ever do, no matter how devoted we 
may be to them, ” the doctor had advised. “Take one along 
by all means. You can get rid of her when Mrs. Eldridge 
is all right again.” 

“You don’t object to our taking her along, then, to look 
after you?” continued Arthur to his wife. 

“Not at all.” 

“You think it a good idea?” 


124 


MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 


She looked up from the handkerchief she was idly plait- 
ing. 

“it makes no difference to me one way or the other,” 
she answered 

“As I say,” pursued Arthur, “she is a lady, poor, I be- 
lieve, and possibly friendless. Doctor Lambert says she has 
lost all her family.” 

Gertrude dropped the handkerchief. 

“All her family?” she repeated. 

''Every member of it.” 

“Poor soul!” she uttered, with a sigh. 

“She is coming here. Will you see her?” 

“Yes, I’ll see her. I shall be more interested in her now. 
I pity her so much ! When is she coming?” 

But before he could respond her maid, Ellen, a trim lit- 
tle Englishwoman, in a black dress and neat, fluted apron, 
entered, after rapping discreetly. 

“The nurse, Miss Cameron, is below, sir, and wishes to 
see you, if you please, ’ ’ she said. 

‘ 4 Do you feel like talking with her? ’ ’ asked Arthur, rising. 

Gertrude nodded, and Ellen disappeared, to return a min- 
ute later accompanied by Miss Cameron. 

She was a very different looking person in her street 
garments from what she was in her cambric dress and 
apron, and Gertrude was obliged to look twice to make 
certain it was the same one. She was in deep though sim- 
ple mourning, and as she entered she threw her vail back 
from her face, pausing at the threshold modestly, yet quite 
at her ease. 

“I may come in?” she said, in a quiet, pleasant tone. 

Gertrude raised herself a little on her cushions, while 
Arthur replied : 


MARRIAGE AND DEATH . 


125 


“We were expecting you. Doctor Lambert spoke of you 
to me, and Mrs. Eldridge wants to have a chat with you.’’ 

He handed her his chair, and informing his wife that he 
was going to the library, left the two women together. It 
was full y half an hour before Ellen was sent to tell him 
that Miss Cameron had gone, and when he was at her side 
again, there was the faintest tinge of color in Gertrude’s 
face, as she said: 

“I am so pleased with her, Arthur! She is charming— so 
intelligent and sweet! I’m surprised that I did not notice 
her before. Where did Doctor Lambert ever find her? She 
is no common person.” 

“Reduced circumstances, I believe. Poverty is responsi- 
ble for no end of ‘princesses in disguise, ’ you know. I’m so 
glad you like her; all my trouble is ended now.” 

“Mine may be just begun. You may fall in love with 
her,” retorted Gertrude, with an archness which was ap- 
parent, in spite of the languor of her voice. 

I will not attempt to describe her husband’s reply; there 
are some phrases it is impossible to reproduce in writing. 

Delighted beyond measure, at even a shade of improve- 
ment in his wife’s manner and appearance, he went to bed 
that night happier than he had been in weeks. 

Miss Cameron, in her conversation with Gertrude, hat) 
expressed herself as willing to come to her as soon as re- 
quired, so Arthur sent for her at once. 

She agreed to go abroad, or even around the world, if de- 
sired, and as for salary, why, she informed Mrs. Eldridge 
that that was not so much of an object as a home. 

In fact, when Mrs. Eldridge suggested a certain amount, 
she looked positively frightened and demurred against tak- 
ing such a sum. She was by no means independently 


126 


MARRIAGE AND DEATH. 


wealthy, she declared, smiling, but still was not destitute, 
and her tastes were simple. Being alone in the world, what 
she required above all, she repeated, was a home in return 
for her services. She professed to have a smattering of 
medical knowledge and had been told that she w T as a com- 
petent nurse. She would do her best to please, and if, after 
they had reached the other side, she was unsatisfactory, 
she could return by the next steamer. It was simple 
enough. She had cared for invalids before, and as for her 
nerves, why, she believed they were of iron. 


AH 2 li UR H HARAS Q UR. 


127 


CHAPTER XV. 

ARTHUR’S HARANGUE. 

It was evident, when Miss Cameron had become a settled 
member of the household, that she had not misrepresented 
herself. Soft footed and light of hand, she was energetic, 
yet never bustling. She was always on the qui vive for an 
opportunity to wait upon Mrs. Eldridge and would read to 
her during the long hours of the night, when Gertrude 
could not sleep, without the first sign of impatience or 
fatigue. She superintended the packing of all her clothes, 
making herself familiar with the places of everything in 
the trunks, in case the maid might he sea-sick and unable 
to properly attend to her mistress’ needs. 

How she ever managed to get the time to do anything 
for herself Gertrude often wondered. Yet she was always 
well-dressed and the pink of neatness. 

“Gertrude, should you he pleased to hear that Dick For- 
rest may go over on the same steamer with us?” asked Ar- 
thur, a few days before the sailing. 

“It would be very good news,” answered his wife. “He 
is such an agreeable man. I knew he intended going abroad, 
but thought he was not to sail until June.” 

“He wasn’t, until I coaxed him to alter his plans. He 
had almost consented when I left him at noon. It wouldn’t 
surprise me in the least if we were to find him on board 
when we reach the steamer.” 

Dick, who had admired Miss Clayton so much before his 
friend’s marriage to her, followed up the impression with 
the determination to make her like him for himself, and 


J28 


ARTHUR'S HARANGUE. 


lie had succeeded. She thought him very clever and origi- 
nal, and preferred him to any of Arthur’s other friends. It 
is true they had not had the opportunity to become par- 
ticularly well acquainted owing to the unfortunate circum- 
stances attendant upon their marriage, but women are in- 
stinctively quick in reading character, and Gertrude felt 
sure that her husband’s friendship for Mr. Forrest would 
be shared by her before long, and so it proved. 

As Arthur had predicted, the first person they saw on 
the deck of the Gascogne, as they stepped off the gang- 
plank, was Dick’s man, Caesar, laden with rugs, books, 
etc., his thick lips parted in a broad smile which displayed 
his even, white teeth like rows of ripe corn. Caesar always 
rejoiced when he heard that his master intended crossing 
the ocean, although on the first trip the rolling of the ship 
had made him so horribly sick that he was certain death 
was imminent. Having conquered the mal de mer , how- 
ever, in his numerous other experiences on the ocean wave 
he had learned to thoroughly approve of the indolent life 
and perfect freedom from care which was his from one 
shore to the other. 

“So your master got here, after all, did he, Caesar? 
Where is he?’’ called out Arthur. 

“In his room, sah, ” answered the darky, with another 
grin and a quick bob of the body intended for a salute. 
“Yes, Mars’er Arthur, we’re heah.” 

Arthur made his wife and Miss Cameron comfortable in 
their steamer chairs, and then, with his valet and Ellen, 
went below. On the way he met Dick coming up. 

“So you have decided to come?” said Arthur, as they 
shook hands. 

“Couldn’t resist your appeal, to save my life, ” replied 


ARTHUR'S HARANGUE. 


129 


Dick. “You tempted me beyond my strength, and as a con- 
sequence, here I am.” 

“So much the better,” uttered Arthur, heartily. 

“I sincerely hope Mrs. Eldridge will not get disgusted 
before she returns to the home of the great and glorious 
eagle,” he said, after dinner that evening, “as she is liable 
to become surfeited with my society. It will not be easy to 
rid yourselves of me, I warn you.” 

“She’s delighted,” declared Arthur, warmly, “and as for 
me, why, you well know what an addition I consider you. ” 

“Oh, you! it isn’t the first dose of me you have had in 
foreign climes,” Dick said, with a sly laugh. “Do you re- 
collect our stay in Paris four years ago and how much 
money we managed to leave there? Enough to pave one 
whole street with franc pieces, I’ll wager, and not such a 
dused short one, either. But of course those old days are 
over, you will leave me to tramp about alone, if I feel like 
seeing the sights, while you sit and look into your wife’s 
eyes. Well, I dare say, you’re the more to be envied of the 
two. Happiness is a rare plant. ” 

“Get married yourself, why don’t you?” said Arthur. 
“I don’t want to preach, but as I live, Dick, I never knew 
the meaning of the word happiness before.” 

“You’re a splendid judge of marriage, or life, either, 
with such an existence as yours, ” uttered Dick, with a 
shade of disgust, “young, healthy, with a beautiful 
wife ” 

They were interrupted just then, by Miss Cameron’s 
voice. 

“Mrs. Eldridge is going to her state-room, as she is very 
much fatigued,” she said to Arthur. “Would you like to 
see her before she goes?” 


130 


ARTHUR'S 11 AR A AGUE. 


Upon receiving his answer she disappeared as noiselessty 
as she had approached. 

“Who is that woman?” asked Dick, following, with his 
eyes, the tall, slender figure, until it was lost in the dark- 
ness. 

“She is Miss Cameron — Miss Elsie Cameron, my wife’s 
companion.” 

“Companion! I cannot imagine her occupying a menial 
position. She hears herself like an empress. ” 

“The position of a companion can scarcely be called 
‘menial,’” observed Arthur, “and reverses have been 
known to turn the softest hand rough. But it "would be 
very long, I judge, before a woman like Miss Cameron, 
who, I have been informed, is a lady born and bred, could 
lose sight of the fact, or allow T any one else to do so, either. 
She has learned precisely how to make herself invaluable 
to those around her, and she is positively necessary to Ger- 
trude’s comfort.” 

“But who is she? Where did you get her?” 

Arthur told him all he knew of Miss Cameron’s history, 
and Dick unconsciously repeated Gertrude’s expression, 
only in different words: 

“Poor girl! What hard lines ! She deserves to be merry 
for the remainder of her life.” 

During the few days occupied in crossing, Dick did not 
find a single hour hang heavy upon his hands, and although 
Caesar brought him each morning a pile of new books, as 
he came from breakfast, most of the leaves were still un- 
cut when they were seated in the train, steaming toward 
Paris. 

The sea air seemed to benefit Gertrude, and she appeared 
on deck with Miss Cameron every day. There Dick and Ar- 


ARTHUR’S HARANGUE. 


131 


thur would join them, and the time passed very quickly 
and pleasantly. Miss Cameron, however, seldom joined in 
the general conversation. She apparently felt the difference 
between her position and that of the others, and preferred 
to sit a little apart with a hook or a bit of needle-work. If 
addressed, she would always reply quietly and politely, 
but any attempt to draw her into conversation was unsuc- 
cessful, though Dick, who expressed himself as “immense- 
ly taken” w T ith the demure way in which she lowered 
her long lashes when spoken to, persistently tried to 
do so. 

Gertrude was enthusiastic in her praises of her and re- 
paid her devotion with many an act of kindness and con- 
sideration, prompted by both pity for the lonely girl and a 
sincere liking for her. 

“Do you know,” began Dick, one night, when they had 
been in Paris about two weeks, “I really fancy Miss Cam- 
eron. She’s uncommonly well-read.” 

“I cannot say that your remark takes me altogether by 
surprise,” returned Arthur, coolly. “In fact, I’ve noticed 
that she appears to attract you. ” 

“She’s such a self-reliant little creature — so plucky,” 
continued Dick, warmly. “Looks as though she might 
have been burned at the stake, if she had had the misfort- 
une to live in those uncomfortable days when people 
weren’t permitted to hold opinions of their own. ” 

“You must have been observing her pretty closely,” re 
torted Arthur. 

“More or less, naturally.” 

“Indeed!” 

Dick glanced at Arthur as this exclamation of disgust or 
impatience — he was not certain which— escaped him 


132 


ARTHUR'S HARANGUE. 


“Well, out with it,” he said, quietly. “You’ve something 
to say, I suppose. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I have,” uttered Arthur, bracing himself, as it 
were, “and I mean to say it now. But understand, I intend 
it in all goodnature, will you? It is this: Please don’t trifle 
with Miss Cameron. You can plainly see that she’s sensi- 
ble and retiring by nature, but a man like you can raise 
the particular devil with a woman like her if he sets about 
it. She’s so innocent and unsophisticated, she might think 
you were serious if you pay her any attention. You are a 
thorough man of the world with no heart in you to lose ; 
she is different. You see, it isn’t fair play, and I beg you 
to be careful. Gertrude is improving every day under her 
hands, and if you spoil her, heaven knows what may hap- 
pen. Heed what I say, for her sake.” 

“You flatter me, my boy,” was Dick’s only response to 
this harangue. 

“I don’t mean to; I am in dead earnest.” 

“You are an eloquent pleader, but I think your warning 
is superfluous — as well as previous I haven’t done any- 
thing to warrant it, that I can think of. How is she to 
know my opinion of her? I just express it to you, en pas- 
sant, and you are under no obligations to retail it to her. 
Are you? Moreover, do you want me to confide to you a 
conviction of mine? I’ve a dim idea that Miss Cameron is 
well able to hold her own, in any event, and as you just 
said, I have studied her, somewhat, so I am perhaps bet- 
ter calculated to judge than you are. She has a decided 
stand-offishness about her, which will protect her in almost 
any skirmish.” 

“But I know you so well, Dick,” returned Arthur, 


ARTHUR'S HARANGUE. 


133 


Dick burst into an amused laugh ; Arthur’s face was so 
solemn. 

“And all this is for conscience’s sake, is it?’’ he said. 
“You don’t mind that you are trying to curtail my lib- 
erty?” 

“Not a bit,” replied Arthur, “your liberty be hanged.” 

“All right, then, my boy.” 

“You promise?” 

“Ido.” 

“And you’ll keep your word?” earnestly. 

“ ‘I have spoken,’ ” quoted Dick, in a tone which ended 
the conversation. 


134 


MISS CAMERON, THE MAGNET. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MISS CAMERON, THE MAGNET. 

Charming as Paris is at all seasons, it had never seemed 
more fascinating to either Gertrude or Arthur, than it did 
that spring. They had a suite of apartments at the Bristol, 
and when they had been there a few days Arthur presented 
his wife with a victoria and a pair of fine English horses. 

Dick stopped in almost every day and the four would 
frequently go out to the Bo is or the Champs Ely sees. Ger- 
trude enjoyed breakfasting or dining out in the open air, 
in true Parisian style, and so almost any pleasant day they 
might he found at one of the quaint little flower-hidden 
restaurants there. 

The two beautiful women, in their somber garb, never 
failed to arouse respectful curiosity wherever they went. 

About the first of July, the heat becoming oppressive, 
they reluctantly left Paris for Switzerland, and August 
found them in Cadenabbia. 

Dick Forrest still lingered with them, although he had 
received several pressing invitations to join other friends. 
In fact, in Paris he had made almost a positive engagement 
to meet two men in Chamounix, on a certain date, hut it 
required very little coaxing on the part of Arthur and Ger- 
trude, to prevail upon him to abandon the idea. 

He was a delightful traveling companion, well informed 
and agreeable to anything suggested, and Gertrude’s 
“favorable impressions,’’ had grown into a warm friend- 
ship, which he returned in kind. It was quite evident to 
Arthur, however, that the real magnet which attracted 


MISS CAMERON , THE MAGNET. 


135 


him to them, was Miss Cameron, for he did not appear to 
be either anxious or able to conceal the admiration which 
it could be plainly seen, he felt for her. Miss Cameron, 
however, apparently, was entirely unconscious of the re- 
gard he entertained for her or else was indifferent to it, for 
her manner toward him was the same as it was toward 
nearly every one with whom she came in contact. She 
was always simple, kind, and unobstrusive, with a reserve 
or reticence so marked, that it gave her an almost forbid- 
ding air. 

In a hundred different ways , as Arthur had stated, the 
girl seemed to know how to endear herself to those for 
whom she cared, while to others she was at times even 
ombarassingly cold. 

Mrs. Eldridge occupied all her time and attention, al- 
though she was now making rapid strides toward recovery. 
She either had not the time or inclination to allow herself 
the least diversion, and when her daily duties were over 
she retired to her room, directly, and no amount of persua- 
sion could induce her to leave it again that night unless 
her services were required. 

Arthur watched Dick’s attitude toward her jealously, 
but he was forced to acknowledge that the latter kept his 
word like a man. His conversations with her were such as 
all the world might hear and never be able to raise an eye- 
brow. As for Gertrude, it amused her very much to see the 
big, quiet Dick, with his grave, blase expression, wait 
around for half an hour just for the pleasure of assisting 
her demure little companion into or out of the carriage. It 
by no means displeased her, either, for the devoted girl 
was fast making a warm place for herself in Mrs. Eldridge’s 
heart. 


136 MISS CAMERON, THE MAGNET. 

Once Gertrude ventured to suggest to her husband that 
she had concluded that “Mr. Dick,’’ as she called him, was 
becoming decidedly interested in Miss Cameron, but her 
remark was greeted with a derisive laugh. 

“Good heavens, my child ! put that notion out of your 
head for once and all, ’’he exclaimed, “That is simply 
Dick’s abominable way; he never was, never could be seri- 
ous about any woman. You don’t know what men of the 
world are as well as I do. ’ ’ 

“And yet, ’’she returned, calmly, “I have been told that 
you were one. But I suppose, ’’ with a smile, “that was dif- 
ferent, of course.” 

In early November they went to Vienna, which they 
found cold and cheerless, an early winter having set in, so 
they decided to lose no time in departing for warmer 
climes. Accordingly they boarded the Oriental Express, 
and after forty long, tedious hours of travel through a con- 
tinuous stretch of as barren and desolate a country as there 
is upon the face of the earth, with a shriek of the engine, 
they rounded a curve and came suddenly upon the bright 
smooth waters of the Sea of Marmora. They were nearing 
Constantinople, and for the first time since they had left 
Austria evidences of thrift spread themselves on every side. 
Strings of camels, marching in single file, made their slow 
way through the sandy waste ; odd-looking craft manned 
by swarthy sailors, floated about on the water, and patient 
little donkeys, with big loads, were urged to a smarter 
gait by well-aimed blows and ceaseless invectives. 

Once inside the old city walls, the train slackened its 
speed until it drew up at the station. Here all was bustle 
and confusion, drivers yelled, hotel agents persuaded, nay, 
almost took bodily possession of each passenger as he 


MISS CAMERON, THE MAGNET. 


137 


alighted, and fought for him as though he were a rare 
prize, which he doubtless w T as. It was pandemonium itself, 
and I am afraid that before Arthur and Dick had gotten 
the ladies safely into a carriage, they uttered many a word 
not altogether flattering either to Turkey or her govern- 
ment. But as no one, excepting the clerical looking “Cook’s 
Interpreter,” standing near by, could understand the lit- 
eral vehemence of their remarks, no harm was done. 

After a long drive through the narrow ill-smelling 
streets, with their numberless gaunt, hungry dogs, they 
arrived at the hotel. As Dick had w T arned them before 
they reached it, there was nothing attractive about it, with 
the exception of the view. It faced on the Bosphorus and 
was on such an elevation that the whole city lay stretched 
out beneath them. The next morning it rained, but it 
ceased sufficiently after luncheon for them to visit the 
mosques, the noted shop of “Far-Away-Moses” and the 
bazaars. 

At the end of about two days Arthur could see that Ger- 
trude was not particularly enthusiastic over Constanti- 
nople. Neither w T as Miss Cameron, for that matter, though 
the latter, as usual, expressed no opinion on the subject. 
Gertrude, more outspoken, said plainly, at last, that it was 
far from what her imagination had painted it. 

“I acknowledge it,” she remarked, sorrowfully, on the 
fourth day, as they were breakfasting, “I am disappointed 

woefully, lamentably, disappointed. I had expected to 

find everything so different. Mr. Dick, you ought to be 
ashamed of yourself for permitting us to come at all, you’ve 
been here before and must have known ” 

“Just how dingy it was?” interrupted Dick, smiling as 
he broke an egg. “It’s true, it isn’t Paris, but it is quaint.. 


138 


MISS CAMERON, THE MAGNET. 


You can’t deny that it is quaint, and unlike any place you 
were ever in before.” 

‘‘It’s dirtier,” declared Gertrude, flatly. “Don’t you 
think so Miss Cameron?” 

“Some parts of it are very interesting, ” replied Miss 
Cameron. 

“Non-committal, as usual/’ laughed Gertrude. “Well, 
then, I’ll give my opinion of it without waiting for an in- 
vitation ; if I were obliged to stay here another week I 
should simply die of the blues, I’m sure of it. Where, oh, 
where did I ever get my ideas of it?” 

“Where most people do,” returned Dick, who was care- 
fully salting his egg; “from books. We flee here from the 
chill of civilized cities, hoping to fina sunshine and roses, 
instead of which ” 

“We freeze,” put in Gertrude, drawing her feather boa, 
which she was seldom without now, closer around her. 

“ lovely women in gorgeous costumes, leaning wist- 

fully against their latticed balconies, and longing, like 
caged birds, to escape ” continued Dick. 

“While in reality we see only a lot of absurdly dressed 
creatures with hideous vails fastened to their noses, which 
give them the appearance of birds with broken beaks,” re- 
joined Gertrude, disgustedly. “It’s a delusion and a 
snare.” 

“All the fault of the romances, my dear Mrs. Eldridge, ” 
said Dick. “To begin with, it is necessary, in order to 
make pleasant reading, to ignore the most terrible and de- 
pressing bugbear of all the East — the poverty. It reduces 
the lower classes to a state more degraded even than that 
of their own animals ; they slave, toil, dig without cessa- 
tion, until they drop in the harness. Their parents did it 


MISS CAMERON \ THE MAGNET. 


139 


before them, their children will do it when they are dead 
and gone. What is the result? They are cruel and harsh 
toward each other and avaricious to the last degree. They 
realize only too well that they may starve or go in rags, 
and no hand will be held out to help them. So each does 
for himself, praying Allah to do for them all.” 

“And the dogs, poor forlorn beasts! take away all my in- 
terest in sight-seeing,” uttered Gertrude, dismally. “They 
are everywhere — lean, hollow-eyed, and ravenous — a per- 
petual nightmare.” 

“I was about to give a biscuit to one of the worst speci- 
mens of doghood I ever saw yesterday, ” said Miss Came- 
ron, “when a woman, so old and miserable that I am sure 
she had not a week to live, came hobbling up to me, and 
with the tears running down her cheeks, begged it of me.” 

‘ Suppose we get away to-morrow?” suggested Arthur, 
looking up from his letters. “I think I have had about 
enough of it myself, and the weather — ugh ! I’ve almost 
forgotten how the sun looks.” 

“With all my heart, ” exclaimed his wife, fervently. 
“Do get the tickets at once— that’s my own, sweet pretty 
— before I quite expire of melancholia. No place can be 
more uncomfortable, at any rate.” 


140 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 

It was afternoon in the Bois de Boulogne — a warm, sun- 
shiny afternoon in May. The drive w T as thronged with open 
carriages, filled with elegantly dressed women and humble 
fiacres hired by those who desired to see, rather than be 
seen. Nurses with their tiny charges strolled along the 
paths, under the trees, now in full leaf, or stood with hun- 
dreds of others as curious as themselves, gaping at the gay 
panorama, with its ever-changing forms and faces. The 
lake, clear as a mirror, reflected the tall trees bending over 
it, and the blue sky, with its filmy, floating clouds. Pedes- 
trians sauntered leisurely along the well-kept walks which 
wound in and out through the shrubs and flower-beds, gay 
with spring flowers. The sun, midway past the meridian, 
brightened the panels of the vehicles and glittered on the 
metal of the harnesses as the long line of carriages crowded 
together, halted, and started up again. A slight breeze was 
blowing; it barely lifted the manes of the horses and gent- 
ly stirred the tender young leaves. 

In a neat victoria, drawn by a large bay, whose well- 
groomed coat shone like satin and driven by a coachman 
in dark-blue livery, sat two women, one middle-aged and 
plain, with a parchment-like face, coarse, dark hair 
streaked with gray, and heavily lined eyes. The other, 
slender and pretty, with the delicate, pink-and- white com- 
plexion which belongs to youth, only, a smiling, self-satis- 
fied expression, and a wealth of blonde hair, arranged in 
the loose neglige fashion which prevailed. 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 141 

Both were stylishly dressed ; the elder in a well-made 
tailor suit, and bonnet of a quiet shade of brown ; the 
younger in a long coat of tan-color, loosely fitting, and a 
jaunty straw hat covered with roses. 

The elder was speaking English in quick, jerky tones, 
with a French accent. 

“Yes,” she was saying, nodding her head, “it certainly 
was a success, and you should be very proud. The applause 
when you and Le Maire had finished the duo was deafen- 
ing, positively.” 

“Was I in good voice?” asked the other, eagerly. 

“Never better; you sang like a bird, and your acting, 
my child — well, I predict a glorious future for you, if you 
do nothing rash.” 

“Oh, I’m not likely to make a faux pas so long as I’m 
under your protecting wing, Madame Philippe,” returned 
the girl, with a light laugh. “Without you ” 

“Without me mademoiselle would be very unsafe, for 
Paris,” said Madame Philippe, dramatically, raising her 
faded eyes to the clouds, floating above their heads, “is a 
dangerous place for a young and beautiful woman alone. I 
know it, from beginning to end, and will never permit 
harm to come to you.” 

“It was a good thought of Fabbricotti’s, hunting you up, 
wasn’t it?” resumed the girl. “He insisted that we must 
have some one to look after us, as soon as we landed, as it 
wasn’t comme il faut for us to be without a chaperon in 
the party, even though w T e were five women together. 
Evelyn Brant, who w T as in Paris several years ago, and had 
taken lessons of you, suddenly recollected you and inquired 
whether you were busy. She found out you weren’t and 
suggested your name to Fabbricotti. He agreed, and you 


142 


A GOLDEN FUTURE FRED 10 TED. 


accepted the post of honor. He knew yon by reputation, 
he said, and had heard nothing that wasn’t to your credit. 
And now that I’m to get this engagement and am going to 
‘paddle my own canoe’ hereafter, as w T e say in America, 
you’ll stayvsith me, won’t you? I’ll need you, as my 
French is beastly! I always get my verbs wrong. The 
others must shift for themselves, poor things! and heaven 
knows how they’ll turn out.” 

‘‘I will, with many thanks, ” answered Madame Philippe, 
ceremoniously, striving to conceal the satisfaction she felt 
at the prospect. ‘‘As I say, I predict a great future for 
Mademoiselle Delmar and shall he only too proud to re- 
main with her.” 

The young girl leaned back against the cushions with a 
dreamy look on her face. The carriage was going the other 
way now, and the wind was freshening. A four-in-hand, 
returning from St. Cloud, passed, filled with men who 
glared impertinently at the flower-like face below them, 
but Miss Delmar did not even see them. 

‘‘To think,” she uttered, musingly, clasping her hands 
in her lap, and with her eyes fixed on the distance ; ‘ ‘ to 
think that I should have been chosen, when, to tell the 
truth, I more than half expected Edna Paxton would be 
the one, her voice is so sweet and well-trained.” 

‘‘It is not half so strong as mademoiselle’s, ” declared 
Madame Philippe, stanclily, “and Miss Paxton’s figure — 
ugh ! it is like a meal-bag. It is so much to be young and 
graceful!” 

And she sighed, for her own lost charms, perhaps. 

“Fabbricotti is delighted,” Miss Delmar resumed, “and 
I am to receive— apropos,” she exclaimed, suddenly, inter- 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED . 143 

rupting herself and leaning forward. “There he is now, 
walking. I want to speak to him.” 

She poked the coachman in the hack with her parasol 
and ordered him to stop. 

“Here you are!” she cried, familiarly, as the man ad- 
dressed hurried toward them. “No, we’ll get out, for I de- 
clare I’m stiff with sitting. Help Madame Philippe, please. ” 

He sprang forward at her bidding, and then it was per- 
ceptible that Madame Philippe was slightly lame — in fact, 
her right hip was higher than the left, but she dressed her- 
self so clevelry that this defect in her figure was scarcety 
noticeable. 

Miss Delmar, who had lowered her parasol in getting out 
of the carriage, now raised it again, and it cast a rosy 
shade on her face and neck. She allowed her skirts to trail 
behind her in the path. 

Signor Fabbricotti took his place beside her, and 
Madame Philippe, with a savoir faire which was part of 
her nature and training, dropped discreetly back. 

“I was going to stop at your hotel on my way back, ” 
the man announced, as they walked along in the directi®n 
of the Cafe de la Cascade. 

“With the contract?” she asked, carelessly. 

“With the contract.” 

Signor Fabbricotti was, as his name would indicate, an 
Italian, an ex -tenor, who, when his palmy days in his own 
land were over, had sought fame and money on the other 
side of the Atlantic. Put to his amazement, fickle fortune 
persistently turned a old shoulder to him there, too, and 
he succeeded in finding neither. In fact, he could not se- 
cure an engagement in even an ordinary theater, and few 
managers would even give him a hearing. Ho was disgusted 


144 


A 0 OLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 


and indignant. But he wisely pocketed his chagrin and 
went to teaching music to young ladies, and in this he was 
successful. Parents were not afraid to trust their daugh- 
ters to his care, for he was not attractive, and his methods 
were of the best, although his voice, once the pride and de- 
light of Milan, was now uncertain and at times positively 
husky. 

In appearance, Signor Fabbricotti was short and gaunt, 
with a hatchet face, a mustache waxed until its points re- 
sembled needles, and a pair of deep-set, restless, black eyes. 
He walked with a vain strut, resembling that of a bantam 
rooster. 

“Yes,” he continued, “Bouchon will be thereat five 
o’clock, and I am to meet him. He wishes you to sign to- 
day.” 

Miss Delmar’s eyes danced, but her voice expressed none 
of the gratification she experienced as she asked, lan- 
guidly: 

“To-day, you say? And the terms?” 

“The amount agreed upon— two hundred francs per 
week.” 

“The amount agreed upon?” she retorted. “By whom, 
may I ask?” 

“By Mademoiselle and Monsieur Bouchon, to be sure.” 

She stood still and stared at him for a moment, and then 
burst into a loud laugh. 

“Why, you’re completely out of your senses! I never 
agreed to anything of the sort. Two hundred francs, in- 
deed ! it would scarcely keep me in boots and gloves ! Pas 
du tout , my friend, I have no intention of making myself 
so cheap— not if I starve in the meantime. I know well 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 145 

what I am worth, and I should never dream of signing for 
one sou less than three hundred and fifty.” 

“Three hundred and fifty,” uttered the Italian. 

“Si, signor.” 

“But, mademoiselle,” he began, deprecatingly, “we 
talked this all over, you and I, on Thursday evening last, 
with the final decision that you would sing for the two 
hundred; that I can swear to, and now, when it is all ar- 
ranged, you— what shall I call it?— retract. I am in de- 
spair.” 

“Then you must not be such a blockhead, Fabbricotti, ” 
returned the girl, rudely. “You remember my saying that 
I wanted three hundred and fifty in the beginning of our 
conversation on Thursday, no doubt? It makes no particu- 
lar difference now, but do you?” 

“Yes, and I told Monsieur Bouchon.” 

“Well, he heard, did he not? He has ears, I believe?” 
mockingly. 

“Certainly, and I urged him for a full hour. But it did 
no good. Two hundred was all he would give. ” 

“What assurance!” exclaimed MissDelmar, vehemently. 
“I bear you no ill-will, however. You’re only Bouchon ’s 
agent, after all, and have done your duty. It doesn’t bother 
me, and it shouldn’t you. Come, here we are at the cafe; 
let’s have something to drink, I’m dying of thirst.” 

And she seated herself at one of the tables, slowly un- 
buttoning her right glove as she did so. 

Most of the tables around them were well filled, but 
theirs was a little apart from the rest, so that no one could 
overhear their conversation. 

Not far off two men, dressed in the height of fashion, 
were drinking absinthe and talking earnestly. Opposite 


146 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 


sat a woman in gray, who studied the menu and paid no 
attention, whatever, to either her surroundings or her com- 
panion, a little old man, with a pointed white heard which 
he constantly stroked in a pensive manner. 

With a scowl, Fabbricotti ordered what she wished 
and then thoughtfully lit a cigarette. 

“Such a day as it is,” she observed, presently. “It makes 
one feel at peace with all the world.” 

Her companion vouchsafed no response. 

“Ah! here is my creme-de-menthe ,” she said, again. 
“Fabbricotti, good luck to you.” 

Fabbricotti acknowledged the toast with a sullen grunt 
and emptied his glass at a gulp. 

Miss Delmar wiped her lips daintily with her handker- 
chief and then arose. He followed her example, and as he 
took up his stick, said, roughly : 

“You refuse, then, to sign for two hundred?” 

“Most assuredly. I should be quite out of my mind to do 
so.” 

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. 

“Then I suppose Monsieur Bouchon must get some one 
else. It is a pity, too, for mademoiselle is so chic.” 

Miss Delmar reopened her parasol with a snap, vouchsaf- 
ing no reply to this compliment. Not far behind followed 
Madame Philippe, apparently absorbed in her own 
thoughts. 

There were a few minutes’ silence, and then Miss Del- 
mar said, abruptly : 

“See here, signor, how much do you make out of this 
business, anyway?” 

Fabbricotti looked grieved; his thin lips tightened. 

“Mademoiselle could not think I would lower myself ” 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 


147 


he began. “Why, not a franc; of course, I work out of the 
purest friendship and good-will only to mademoiselle.’’ 

“A likely story! a plausible one, too — for geese! I quite 
understand that there’s a good fat plum in the pie some- 
where for you, Fabbricotti, hut I don’t know just where — 
yet. Answer me, frankly, do you get paid when the con- 
tract is signed, or are you interested in the success of the 
piece Bouchon intends to bring out?” 

“How can I convince you?” replied Fabbricotti, mourn- 
fully. “I assure you, Mademoiselle Delmar, I have noth- 
ing to do with the affair, nothing whatever. For the sign- 
ing, I am not anxious ; of the piece, I am in ignorance. I 
brought mademoiselle over on a venture, and I wish to see 
her well placed. It is my duty.” 

‘ ‘ How you prattle ! Come, out with the truth, what do 
you make of this thing? Do you take me for a two-year- 
old, Fabbricotti?” 

“Bah! Well, then, a mere pittance, mademoiselle,” said 
the man, sheepishly, “if you do sign, it is barely possible 
Monsieur Bouchon may make me a little present for the 
trouble I have taken ; mind you, though, I only say it is 
possible.” 

“Fabbricotti,” said Miss Delmar, slackening her pace, 
“you are a deceitful old rogue, and Bouchon is none too 
guileless, and I— well, I am not going to spare either of 
you. Listen ! This morning Bartonni, of the N Thea- 

ter, came around and offered me three hundred and twenty- 
five if I’d sign with him. So you see, it was unnecessary 
for you to misrepresent things to me so.” 

“Bartonni?” repeated the Italian, in consternation. 

“Bartonni himself,” returned Miss Delmar, coolly. 


148 A ’GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 

‘ But you will not desert us? You placed yourself in my 
hands. I am responsible ” 

She laughed provokingly in his face. 

“Would you in my place?” she demanded, pertly. “You 
see, Fabbricotti, I am unlike you, I don’t do favors out of 
pure friendship. And as for the responsibility, pray rest 
assured, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. ” 

The Italian grew pale. 

“But me, I brought you over here, and I cannot permit — 

I ” he stammered, in his ill-concealed rage. “It would 

be infamous, treacherous, mademoiselle!” 

“Perhaps. But we must shift for ourselves in this world, 
wht,re we are thrown on our own resources, ” she rejoined. 
“You understand me, eh? You’ll get along all right, 
though, never fear; your honesty will carry you through,” 
she concluded, mockingly. 

The remainder of the walk toward the carriage was taken 
in deep silence. 

Fabbricotti went with bowed head. He -was perplexed — 
at his wits’ end, while she was as placid as though she had 
not a care on earth. Neither paid the slightest attention to 
Madame Philippe, who still kept considerately in the back- 
ground. 

The coachman straightened up on his box and grasped 
his whip more firmly as they approached. 

As Miss Delmar was about to step into the carriage the 
Italian, with an indescribable gesture, said, in a surly 
voice : 

“One minute, Miss Delmar, if you please; I will not de- 
tain you longer.” 

“You wish to speak to me?” she asked, turning around. 

“Walk a little longer with me,” he pleaded. 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 149 

“Not far, then,’’ she replied, “as it’s growing cold. You 
stay here, Madame Philippe.’’ 

When they were out of Madame Philippe’s hearing, he 
resumed : 

“You will go with Bartonni, then? It is settled?” 

“Oh, bother! is that all you want?” she exclaimed, im- 
patiently. “For the last time, then, yes, oui , si. Now do 
you comprehend, stupid?” 

“And if I offer the same amount?” 

He paused, clutching his thin hands convulsively. But 
she did not answer at once, enjoying the torture she was 
inflicting upon him. At last: 

“It’s rather late now,” she returned. “My mind is made 
up. Besides, it would not be fair, you see.” 

“No, it is not too late,” he entreated. “Be reasonable. 
Bartonni is a mere nobody.” 

She shook her head, but as he continued to plead, she 
smiled a little. Then, after appearing to reflect for a mo- 
ment or two, she said, at length, gravely: 

“No, my good Fabbricotti, 1 cannot disappoint Bartonni 
— at any rate, not without ample compensation. Make it 
four hundred, and I am yours. Business is business.” 

The poor man stared, aghast. Beads of perspiration stood 
out on his forehead. 

“You are insane!” he ejaculated. 

“Not I; it is my price. Am I worth it to you? Gome, I 
am sick of this ; take me back to my carriage. Decide 
quickly.” 

A wild fury against this slip of a girl, who dared to dic- 
tate to him in such a barefaced manner, welled up in his 
breast. But he was powerless, and his greed for money was 
great. 


150 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 


She quickened her gait. 

“I’m thoroughly chilled,’’ she announced. “Hurry.” 

Her words fell upon deaf ears ; he was wondering what 
to say. She addressed him once more, this time very 
sweetly. 

“Is it a bargain, then, my good friend?” 

“What shall I do? Mon Dieu ! I suppose I must say yes. 
You will ruin me. I shall be killed.” 

“Oh, no, au contraire , I shall make your fortune,” she 
said, all amiability. “Then I can depend upon you to bring 
the contract around? Remember, four hundred. Not a sou 
less.” 

He went his way with a slow step, the picture of dejec- 
tion, as she sprang lightly into the victoria beside Madame 
Philippe and drove off. 

“You heard the row, I suppose?” she said, as they rolled 
swiftly on. “That little jumping- jack must take me for a 
fool, but I flatter myself, I got the best of him. He thinks 
because he brought me over here and ‘launched’ me, as he 
calls it, that I must take whatever he dictates and be 
thankful. But I know a trick worth half a dozen of that, 
and he had to come to my terms.” 

And she repeated the result of their conversation. 

I “Quite right,” said Madame Philippe, nodding approval, 

| “and as for Bartonni, they hate him so, I presume you 
| played Bouchon against him, as you did him against Bou- 
chon.” 

“No,” responded the girl, “to be frank with you, I have 
never laid eyes upon Bartonni.” 

“What? Then it was his agent who called?” 

“Wrong again. My conversation with Bartonni was pure 
fabrication.” 


A GOLDEN FUTURE PREDICTED. 


151 


The elder woman was puzzled. 

“You do not mean to say ” she began. 

“I mean to say that I used Monsieur Bartonni’s name 
with as great success as though he had actually spent the 
morning — as I tried to picture to Fabbricotti — on his knees 
to me. How he would fume, if he knew it ! I suppose I told 
nothing short of lies, but it was rare fun, and I gained my 
point, with no harm done to any one. You see, Madame 
Philippe,’’ and she beamed upon her companion, “when 
one has to live by one’s wits, one cannot be too particular 
to keep one’s words as white as the driven snow. I prefer 
to stick to the truth ; of course, it’s better and it’s safer, 
but I wouldn’t hesitate in a. serious case like this, for ex- 
ample, would you?’* 

And the excellent Madame Philippe — this paragon of all 
the virtues, who had been chosen to guide and guard the 
footsteps of pure, unsophisticated girlhood, did not hesi- 
tate as she replied : 

“You acted with a wisdom beyond your years, my child, 
and I repeat, I predict a golden future for you.” 


152 


ARTHUR'S OPIXION. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Arthur’s opinion. 

Athens, with its majestic ruins, its oddly costumed sol- 
diers, and above all, its quiet restfulness, interested our 
party for a week, and then they found themselves quite 
ready to continue their journey to Cairo. 

Though they found the climate of Greece somewhat 
milder than that of Turkey, the weather, which continued 
stormy or threatening, did not really mend until Alexan- 
dria was reached, and then, the first night they slept on 
shore, the sun set in a blaze of purple and pink. 

They were received at Sheppards by the suave landlord 
— whose cordial manner and bland smile are never forgot- 
ten by any one who partakes of his hospitality — and given 
the most desirable apartments in the hotel. 

The balmy air and soft sunshine worked wonders for 
Gertrude, and before she had been in Egypt a fortnight 
she was almost entirely restored to health and strength. 

Each day, after breakfast, she and Miss Cameron would 
repair to the spacious terrace in front of the hotel and sit 
there in contemplative idleness for hours, or else, armed 
with a book and parasol, they would roam through the fine 
old garden at the foot of the grounds, returning in time to 
go for the usual afternoon drive. 

The few weeks spent up the Nile were equally enjoyable, 
and the pink in Gertrude’s cheeks had changed to a healthy 
brown before their return to Cairo. Even Miss Cameron’s 
pale face brightened under the general influence of the at- 
mosphere and surroundings ; she smiled more frequently, 


ARTHUR'S OPIXION. 


153 


and on one or two rare occasions was heard to laugh quite 
heartily, which fascinated Dick more hopelessly than ever. 

Arthur had rented a villa midway between Nice and 
Ville-Franche for the gay season, and as soon as conven- 
ient, they intended recrossing the Mediterranean and tak- 
ing possession of it. Gertrude’s horses, with an additional 
pair for riding, had been sent on there from Paris, and a 
staff of servants, under the supervision of an excellent 
housekeeper, were installed some time before they them- 
selves had decided upon the exact date of their departure. 

In proportion to the improvement noticed in Miss Came- 
ron’s manner and appearance, however, that of Mr. Forrest 
seemed to deteriorate. He grew more silent every day and 
at times was actually moody. He would spend hours by 
himself and, from being the life of the party, would often 
make excuse to avoid accompanying them. 

It was impossible to say what ailed him, as he did not 
complain and seemed physically as strong as ever. Only 
ambition of every kind had apparently died within him. 

“It’s his liver, ” said Arthur, one day, when Gertrude 
was telling him how she had to coax him to accompany 
them to the Muski to examine some rare old lamps. 

“It’s his heart,” declared his wife, sententiously. 

“Eh?” uttered Arthur, misinterpreting her, but she had 
left the room. 

One evening, after dinner, when the two men were on 
the terrace, together, lingering over the cafe noir and cigar- 
ettes, Dick, who had not spoken for at least fifteen min- 
utes, suddenly said, abruptly : 

“Tell me, Arthur, what do you think of Miss Cameron?” 

“Sir,” returned Arthur, with mock severity, “do you 
forget that I am a married man — a slave to my wife’s 


154 


ARTHURS OPINION. 


slightest caprice? What an absurd question, then, to put 
to me!” 

“No one could live with you and not realize that fact,” 
said Dick; “but, seriously, what is your opinion of 
her?” 

“Well,” began the other, moving back from the table 
and settling himself comfortably, “if I am to be catechised 
— and I don’t mind it much, as I feel rather talkative to- 
day — to begin with, I admire her, of course, but in the 
same way I would a beautiful painting or a masterpiece of 
any kind.” 

“I don’t follow you.” 

“She lacks something to make her quite to my taste.” 

“What does she lack?” 

“Perhaps you might call it — soul.” 

“Never!” exclaimed Dick, decidedly. 

“If you don’t relish my opinion, why on earth did you 
ask for it? Bear in mind, it is a precious article and seldom 
thrust upon any one, therefore receive it with proper re- 
spect,” replied Arthur. 

“All right. Beg your pardon. Go on.” 

“Then, she is cold — cold as ice. She has never loved in 
her life and never will ; she is not built for the tender pas- 
sion. I could not imagine her a tender wife or mother. ” 

Dick made another movement, as though to again con- 
tradict him, but refrained. 

“She is unlike most young women in lots of ways— she 
is totally unimpressionable ; she exists, but has never lived 
a single day.” 

“She reads constantly,” said Dick. 

“Oh, yes, and if she has a world, it is found within the 
two covers of a musty old volume — not even a yellow one’s, 


ARTHUR'S OPINION. 


155 


either. But I doubt if she has. She is even incapable of 
longing.” 

‘‘What a nature you attribute to her! To be plain, you 
consider her conceited and self-sufficient.” 

‘‘The gods forbid !” cried Arthur. ‘‘I have reason to know 
she is far from that, as her devotion to Gertrude proves, 
and she has won my eternal gratitude. No, she is only self- 
contained, self-reliant ; her desires are few, and her wants 
still less. She has little in common with any one and is sat- 
isfied with so much less than most people, that you rather 
pity her. There might be luxury on all sides of her, and 
yet I doubt if she would be happy if she ‘got it’ like the 
Pear’s soap baby. And now, ” he continues, imperturbably, 
‘‘that I have set your teeth all on edge by forcing you to 
listen to so much that you don’t like to hear, or wish to be- 
lieve, I will take the sharpness out of some of my remarks 
by stating in conclusion, that Miss Cameron possesses one 
thing, however, which will always attract people to her.” 

“Indeed?” 

It was evident that Dick had no particular desire to listen 
longer to his friend’s “opinion.” 

“Yes,” resumed Arthur, not in the least daunted. “She 
has — individuality. ” 

“Individuality?” repeated Dick, inquiringly. 

“I think that’s the word, ” continued Arthur, in the same 
indolent tone. “You know some people have a sort of per- 
sonality whioh marks them distinctly. With women it 
shows itself in a dozen different ways, insignificant, per- 
haps, but unmistakable; it may be in the fashion they 
wear their hair, the pose of the head, the walk, anything 
and everything. They may do and wear what every one 
else does, for I don’t mean to insinuate that they’re odd or 


156 


ARTHUR’S OPINION. 


queer, but for all that, they do or wear it in their own 
peculiar way, and that is in itself a fascination. Do you 
understand me? I knew a charming girl, once, who never 
used any but heliotrope perfume, and there was always the 
faintest, sweetest odor of it lingering about her, on her 
gloves, her handkerchiefs, her note paper, and to my dying 
day I will never smell it without being reminded of her. 
Miss Cameron has this characteristic in a high degree, and 
unconsciously to yourself, possibly, it is that which has 
awakened your evident interest in her. It holds one like 
cast-iron, so beware, Richard, lest it insnare you beyond 
redemption.” 

*‘I grasp your meaning, of course, and acknowledge that 
she is unlike most other women of her age, but I do not be- 
lieve that she is without feeling,” declared Dick, with a 
noble scorn for his friend’s warning. ‘‘In fact, I would 
stake my last dollar that the reverse is the case.” 

‘‘Or self-contained?” 

‘‘I don’t deny that, but I never saw a woman who seemed 
to me to be more capable of devotion. I admit, though, she 
has marvelous powers of self-control, and, it may be, has 
no desire to be other than she is. If her present life suits 
her, what has she to gain?” 

‘‘Good heavens, what an extraordinary proposition! As- 
suming that she is perfectly contented with her present 
lot, what else could she have? Nothing on the face of the 
earth ! I sincerely trust she is half-way happy, the poor 
little soul, and yet, I sometimes think she must be lonely 
away off here, with only strangers for companions. I rather 
wish I knew her history. She has a sad face, don’t you 
think? And such big, hungry eyes, somehow I can’t bear 
to meet them straight. I wonder if she ever had a disap- 


ARTHUR'S OPINION. 


157 


pointment — a crushing one, I mean? At times, her expres- 
sion is so reproachful, like that of a hunted animal. Or it 
may he my crazy imagination. I never did fancy those 
tragic looking women, they give me a chill. I infinitely 
prefer one whose face changes with her moods, even if her 
eyebrows do occasionally meet with rage. When the storm 
has passed over, the sun shines more brilliantly then ever, 
and you know that it is good, warm blood which is flowing 
in her veins — not water. I have no patience with mysteries 
or mysterious beings. Duse take it ! while I have been 
chattering here like a schoolgirl my coffee has grown 
stone cold. No” (to the waiter) “no more, hut you may 
bring in some cognac, if you can get Martelle. ” 

“Do you know,” said Dick, pensively, as he was about 
to raise the brandy to his lips, “I believe Miss Cameron 
has a history.” 

Arthur put his glass down, with an involuntary gesture. 

“My dear hoy,” he replied, soberly, though with a tinge 
of raillery in his voice, “did you ever come across an at- 
tractive woman over twenty who had not?” 


158 


MADLY IX LOVE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MADLY IN LOVE. 

About three o’clock on the day preceding their departure 
from Cairo, Gertrude and Arthur went to visit the Citadel 
for the last time, to hear the music, and Miss Cameron, 
who had been busily packing most of the forenoon, went 
out for a breath of fresh air. 

Knowing of no more restful or retired spot than the old 
garden she slipped through the gate and wandered about 
for an hour or more, under the shade of the orange trees. 

Somewhat fatigued with walking, at length, she seated 
herself on the trunk of a fallen tree and opened a book, 
which she had brought with her, but as nature around her 
was so bewitching that she found it a bore to pin her atten- 
tion to the pages before her, she soon laid it down. She 
was nearly hidden from the path by a clump of old trees, 
while at her feet flowed a tiny brooklet. So absorbed did 
she become in contemplating the quiet beauty on every 
side of her, that she did not hear approaching footsteps 
and it was not until the snapping of a twig, near by, 
startled her and caused her to raise her eyes that they met 
the equally surprised ones of Dick Forrest. 

“Oh! Is it you Mr. Forrest?’’ she exclaimed, recovering 
herself first. 

“Did I frighten you? What are you doing alone here?’’ 
he asked, in his turn. 

“Pretending to read; in reality watching that flock of 
crows circling over yonder. I cannot make out what is the 
matter with them. What a noise they make ! Every after- 


MADLY IN LOVE. 


159 


noon at about this time they begin their deafening chatter, 
and do not cease until sundown. ’ ’ 

His gaze followed hers and then returned. 

“What are you reading?” he said. “You have not offered 
me part of your seat, but I may share it, may I not?” 

She moved her skirts aside, and he sat down. 

“It is so lowly,” she replied. 

“And like most lowly places, not particularly comfor- 
table,” he remarked, laughingly. “Let me see your book. ” 

She handed it to him silently. 

“Zola!” he exclaimed. “I never should believe you 
would condescend to attack so earthy a volume.” 

“Pray, why not?” she returned, a little defiantly, though 
a faint tinge of color burned in her cheek. “I read anything 
and everything that suits me. As for Zola, I confess I ad- 
mire him immensely.” 

“You do?” 

“Yes, for two reasons. The first is, he so thoroughly un- 
derstands his subjects, and then, because he goes so much 
into detail.” 

“And that does not bore you?” 

“Does it bore you in a painting?” 

“No,” he admitted, “but that’s different.” 

“It should not be; we do not admire other incomplete 
things, why should it not hold true in literature? Zola 
takes a character as a botanist does a flower or an anato- 
mist does an animal— he dissects it until the very heart- 
throbs are exposed.” 

“Do you consider that interesting? We value painstak- 
ing in a picture because it represents labor, and labor rep- 
resents cost, but a writer— what given laws has he?” 

“To please— and Zola pleases me.” 


160 


MADLY IN LOVE. 


He was turning the leaves of the hook to hide the amuse- 
ment which he felt at her earnestness. Presently he re- 
marked : 

“By many persons, you know, he is called immoral.’’ 

Her lip curled. 

“By those, perhaps, who are incapable of criticising just- 
ly or else who merely skim through the pages superficially. 
And that is unfair. It is quite true he has been courageous 
enough to express his views fully upon certain subjects 
which few other writers have dared to do more than touch 
upon. But how has he treated them? With what power 
and grace does he draw his pen-pictures? Do any of his so 
called ‘immoral’ stories leave the reader infatuated with 
vice? Does he, himself, describe it as though he loved it? 
He simply deals with it intelligently and conscientiously ; 
he is not afraid, and he handles it without gloves. To this 
candor, which is really force of character, the sentimental 
world objects. It is easy to condemn what one does not 
take the pains to comprehend.” 

“You are right, perhaps,” he admitted, smiling, “but 
you, too, are brave to reason in this bold way.” 

“No,” she said, somewhat coldly, “I am only honest.” 

- ‘This ‘Therese Raquin’ is not a particularly cheerful tale, 
however,” he remarked, after a short pause. 

The sudden animation which had just lighted up her 
face died out as quickly. 

“Who reads stories for the mirth they get out of them? 
As well drink champagne for the sparkle one finds on it.” 

“Most people— I do, for instance.” 

She looked at him with a long, curious glance, and then 
laughed lightly. 

“Then you are a baby!” she said. “You still have a 


MADLY IN LOVE. 


161 


fancy for fairy tales, no doubt? Shall I tell you a few 
which perhaps are new to you? Well, then, once upon a 
time ” 

“Don’t make fun of me, I beg,’’ he uttered, languidly; 
“I never could stand it. But will you pay attention if I tell 
you something, Miss Cameron?” 

“Certainly.” 

“You agree, then, not to get angry. It is this: You are 
too serious.” 

She let her quiet, passionless gaze wander far away, but 
did not reply. 

“It seems to me,” he continued, somewhat eagerly. 
“You would be so much better off if you looked at life 
through rosier glasses than you do ; this world is not half 
so bad a place, after all, if you only make yourself believe 
it.” 

As she still remained silent, he went on, gravely : 

“It is a thousand pities, too — you are making a mistake; 
take my word for it and overcome it, if you can, Miss 
Cameron.” 

She turned to him, almost passionately, but checked her- 
self. 

“You don’t realize what you are saying, I think,” she 
answered. “You are a man of the world, whose very mode 
of living prevents him from fully comprehending what 
real sorrow means and who probably has never been called 
upon to bear any affliction. My life has been simplicity 
itself, and I have had to suffer alone. Neither of us can 
justly criticise the other.” 

“I do not mean to criticise you,” he returned, apologet- 
ically. “And believe me, I am speaking with all sincerity. 

I cannot help taking an interest in you, and I hate to see 


162 


MADLY IN LOVE. 


one so young and beautiful as you are as sedate as awomaii 
of seventy. You do not appear to enjoy anything or to 
have any of the inclinations so natural to youth.” 

‘‘Pray do not say any more,” she said; “you do not com- 
prehend ” 

“But I should like to, Miss Cameron. Tell me, will you 
not, what has made you so serious?” he persisted. 

She bit her lip with evident annoyance and regarded the 
pebbles at her feet. 

“I should be sorry to think,” she answered, slowly, 
“that I seem like a person who has outlived all the agree- 
able sensations in this world, for such is far from being 
the case.” 

“On the contrary, you seem like one who has never 
tasted them, and who, moreover, never cares to. You are 
so reserved. Don’t think me impertinent, but tell me, have 
you ever entertained the thought of marrying?” 

He riveted upon her a look at once so penetrating and 
confident that it caused her to blush scarlet. He saw that 
he had confused her painfully, and yet he did not regret 
his question. At first she sat motionless as though uncer- 
tain whether to resent his assurance or not, then she said : 

“I suppose almost everyone has at one time or another. ” 

Here was an admission which was far from being just 
what he had anticipated. 

So she had a past, and he was right in his conjecture. 
He realized perfectly that the conversation was distasteful 
to her, and had her reply been different he might have de- 
sisted then and there, but another feeling, one which he 
hardly dared to analyze, had awakened in his breast and 
urged him still further, 

“But I dare say you, like many others, don’t believe in 


MADLY IN LOVE. 


163 


it,” he rejoined, flippantly, “and hesitate about trying the 
experiment?” 

“Not believe in it?” she repeated. “Why should I not 
believe in the best, the holiest of ties?” 

“It is true you have the noblest of examples before you.” 

“Yes,” she uttered, simply. “You are right, they are de- 
votion itself . ” 

Dick grew still bolder. 

“And yet, how old are you — twenty -four? and have 
never been engaged, perhaps?” 

A cold, dreamy expression came into her face. 

“No. Marriage is not for all, ” she murmured. 

“But you, Miss Cameron, a woman like you, to argue in 
this strain ! Forgive me, but have you ever had a love 
affair?” 

She seemed uncertain at first whether to answer or not, 
and an attentive listener might have observed the effort 
with which she controlled her voice as she lifted her lus- 
trous, night-black eyes to his and said : 

“Never. ” 

“What a life you must have led! Do you know, I believe 
you when you say you have suffered a great deal, though?” 

“Why should you not? You have learned from my own 
lips that I have lost all my family — is not that enough ” 

“To change one’s entire nature, as yours must have 
changed? To taint the cup of pleasure before it has ever 
touched the lips? No, a thousand times!” cried Dick, with 
a vehemence totally unusual with him. “Bereavements 
bring sadness, it is true ; they leave hopelessness, resigna- 
tion behind them for a time, but they do not embitter one’s 
whole life as yours has been embittered ! What is the cause 
— forgive me if I seem presumptuous in trying to wrest 


164 


MADLY IK LOVE. 


your secret from you, but as I live, it is not vulgar curios- 
ity. Can you not see ” 

She arose agitatedly. 

“Stop,” she murmured, hurriedly. But he caught her 
hand, with a look on his face which no woman had ever 
seen there before. 

“Yqu must hear me,” he said, behind his closed teeth. 

She paused a moment, irresolute, as though the spell of 
his presence held her there, then impelled, apparently, by 
a power stronger than herself, she broke from him and dis- 
appeared through the gate. 

All at once the sky seemed dull and clouded to Dick ; the 
sun, which had been shining brightly all day, appeared to 
be blotted out. Hope had suddenly died within his heart 
and had left it cold and heavy, as with bodily pain. When 
he began he had not meant to show her what she was to 
him, but his feelings, stronger than his will, had spurred 
him on until he had revealed to her more than he had in- 
tended. And she had refused even to listen ! He had tried 
to tell her of his love for her, and she had fled from him, 
and perhaps even now was laughing at his weakness. Oh, 
ignominy ! 

At his feet lay her parasol. Slowly he stooped and picked 
it up, and then, after lighting a cigarette, he started to go 
in the direction opposite to the one which she had taken. 
Presently he stopped, tossed the cigarette into the brook, 
where it gave up its short life with a resentful “hiss, ” and 
shook his head at the image reflected there. 

“So, it’s all over,” he muttered, “and, as is usual with 
men of my years and experience, I’ve made an ass of my- 
self at this late day The rosy dream I’ve been so fondly 
cherishing has vanished into thin air — bah ! it serves me 


MADLY IN LOVE. 


165 


right, too. The idea of my permitting myself to crave 
domestio bliss — to long for a different life from what I’ve 
always quoted as the only one free from troubles and com- 
plications of all kinds ! Experience ! why, the most callow, 
insipid youth in his first dress-coat is as wise as I ! He 
could lose his head no more completely than I’ve done. I 
have preached and warned all these years, considering that 
I, myself, was beyond the pale — to what purpose? To my- 
self fall a victim at last to the very fate I ridiculed! And 
w T orse than all, to be scorned, into the bargain. Who would 
credit it? And the most ignominous part of it is, that I 
care. Yes, more than my pride is wounded; to my ever- 
lasting shame, let me confess that I am in love, blindly, 
madly. I could kiss the print of her little foot in the dust. 
She has taken such complete possession of my senses that, 
though she pass out of my life this instant, I shall adore 
her to my dying day. Were I younger, hotter blooded, 
more impetuous, I would probably rush away and seek for- 
getfulness in dissipation, or even search for another as 
fair, though less obdurate, but this expedient is denied me ; 
it is unsuited both to my years and inclinations. At least, 
I can endeavor to prevent myself from becoming a 
laughing-stock. No, I cannot turn coward and flee; I 
must face it out, and be man enough to swallow some of 
the same medicine with which I’ve doctored so many 
others. ‘ E meglio cader dalla finestre, die dal tetto!' ” 


166 


FLO RINK 


CHAPTER XX. 

FLORINE. 

“What a sweet, pretty face!’’ 

Arthur and Gertrude had been settled in Nice for a 
month or more before Dick Forrest, who had found it nec- 
essary to go up to Paris for a couple of weeks, reached 
there. 

Dick, on his arrival, straightway proceeded to establish 
himself in comfortable bachelor quarters, fitted up to suit 
his own rather Bohemian tastes. He was delightfully 
located, in apartments overlooking the Mediterranean, and 
had the advantage of occupying the entire floor. 

As soon as he was settled his first act was to hid his 
friends from the Villa Mignonne to breakfast with him, 
and it was on this occasion that the foregoing remark was 
made. Gertrude, in tripping through the rooms, examin- 
ing, woman-fashion, everything there and expressing, in 
the frankest terms, her approval or disapproval, had sud- 
denly lit upon a pile of photographs tossed in a drawer. As 
Miss Cameron, who had just risen from the piano, where 
she had been singing snatches of Italian songs in a pure, 
contralto voice, did not hear her exclamation, she repeated: 

“Look, Miss Cameron, is she not lovely? Such eyes, and 
that dear baby mouth. Mr. Dick, I say, who is this angel?” 

The two men, who were finishing their cigarettes on the 
sunny balcony, looked up, and Dick called into the room, 
gayly: 

“Oh, dear, what has she found now? At any rate, I fear 
there are but few pairs of wings to be found in my collec- 


FLO RISE. 


167 


tion of beauties. To which particular one do you refer, 
however?” 

She held the picture toward him. It represented a young 
girl in the character of ‘‘La Mascotte,” with a big straw 
hat thrown back off her laughing face, and her arms full 
of sheaves. Her attitude was full of graceful abandon, and 
the parted lips smiled from the cardboard with the inno- 
cent boldness of a child. 

‘‘Oh, that is Florine!” 

‘‘Thanks, that tells me so much,” returned Gertrude, 
pertly, still gazing at the likeness. 

‘‘Florine is a little artist who had no end of success in 
Paris last season and is now at Monte Carlo. I heard her 
when I was in Paris and bought the photograph. She sings 
well and looks better,” explained Mr. Forrest. 

‘‘You say she is at Monte Carlo now?” 

“Yes, and, by the way, she’s an American by birth.” 

At these words Miss Cameron approached and glanced at 
the picture. 

“What ails you, Miss Cameron?” cried Gertrude, as her 
companion turned "white and almost fell into a chair. 
“Quick! Dick, Arthur, a glass of wine!” 

“It is nothing,” murmured Miss Cameron. “I am only a 
little faint. I shall be better directly. See, I am all right 
now,” and she tried to smile, as one held a glass of sherry 
to her lips and the other ran for salts. “Please do not 
alarm yourselves, I am subject to attacks of this kind, 
especially in warm weather. There, you see, I am quite 
myself again.” 

And to prove it, she arose and resumed her seat at the 
piano. 

It was nearly three o’clock, and as the carriage had been 


168 FLO hIXE. 

ordered to return for them at that hour, the two women 
were soon ready. 

“You know,’’ said Gertrude to Dick, as they were go- 
ing, “you aroused my curiosity about this fascinating 
Florine, and I shall not be satisfied until I have seen and 
heard her. Let us go soon. You will join us, of course?’’ 

“With pleasure. How would Friday suit you? This is 
Wednesday. We might dine at Monte Carlo.” 

“Capital! Friday, then, au revoir. Come, Miss Cameron, 
you are still pale.” 

Strange to say, it did not require any urging on Mrs. El- 
dridge’s part, to induce Miss Cameron to make one of the 
party, when the day arrived. She expressed herself as 
quite willing to attend the opera. 

“Poor girl! she sees so little. I’m delighted that she 
makes no objection to going this time. It will do her good. 
I feel selfish to leave her moping alone so much, ” remarked 
Gertrude to her husband, as she drew on her gloves. 

The dinner at the Cafe de Paris was very gay, and after- 
ward, following the almost irresistible impulse of all visit- 
ors to the tiny domain of the Prince of Monaco, they strolled 
into the gambling-rooms. A clear night had closed in, and 
a full moon, high in the heavens, was making a silver path 
across the sea. Straightaway, as far as the eye could reach, 
lay the grayish, rippling water. On both sides mountains 
and hills, gently rising from the very shores, stood in bold 
relief against the clear evening sky. The brightly lighted 
palace, situated on its little promontory, resembled a fairy 
dwelling from the mainland. 

“What an ideal spot this is!” exclaimed Gertrude, en- 
thusiastically, as they paused a moment on the terrace. 

“It is indeed,” returned Dick, “as a Frenchman once re- 


FLO RINK 


169 


marked, ‘Nature and man did their utmost to make it a 
heaven on earth, hut, unfortunately, the devil got posses- 
sion of it.’ ” 

“Rather rough on the managers of the Casino,” said Ar- 
thur. 

Gertrude, after passing a hunch-back in the corridor, at 
once insisted upon “trying her luck,” declaring that as 
she had touched his coat, it would he impossible for her to 
lose. Accordingly, managing to secure a place at one of the 
tables, she staked a few louis on the “noir,” and, much to 
her delight, fortune favored her. 

“Now,” advised Arthur, “risk the whole amount upon 
the ‘roug9’ and you may double them again.” 

“Oh, no, ” replied his wife, vacating her coveted seat; “I 
have won, and I am satisfied.” 

“ Queles femmes sont sages!” murmured an old diplo- 
mat, admiringly, at her elbow, as he slipped into her place. 

“If you will excuse us, Dick and I will go and have a 
shy at the tables, while you’re enjoying yourselves. It 
would simply bore me to death to sit through the per- 
formance. We’ll be back before it’s over,” said Arthur, as 
they entered the concert-room. 

“We won’t mind in the least,” returned his wife. 

“You can put your wraps on our vacant seats, ’’sug- 
gested Dick, laying Miss Cameron’s coat on the back of one 
of the chairs. “I know you’ll enjoy that luxury.” 

The curtain rose on a scene in Normandy. In the market 
place of a small village the villagers were crying their 
wares and soliciting custom in a rollicking chorus, which 
they rendered with a will. Presently the throng separated, 
and down through the middle ran a little peasant girl in 
the costume of a strolling player, ragged and torn, with a 


170 


FLOR1RE. 


battered tambourine in her band. Tossing it high into the 
air with the point of her foot, she caught it again, and 
with a saucy wink at the audience, she broke into a song, 
all about “birds,” “flowers,” and “her native fields.” At 
its conclusion she executed a daring pas seul , twisting and 
bending in her shabby costume, with such supreme grace 
that, with one accord, the house burst into uproarious ap- 
plause. She acknowledged it with a beaming smile, and 
then, snatching her cap off, she ran up the stage again, 
with her long golden hair streaming behind her. 

“Encore!” clamored her admirers, but in vain; she 
would not repeat. 

“She sings well and dances like a nymph, but her accent, 
isn’t it something atrocious?” uttered Gertrude, behind 
her programme to Miss Cameron, who had not taken her 
eyes off the pretty singer for an instant. 

But a half-suppressed cry broke from her lips. 

Miss Cameron had fainted. 


“WHERE CAE SHE EE?' 


171 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“where can she be?” 

Mademoiselle Florine was just awaking. First, she slow- 
ly opened her blue eyes, then she yawned, and finally, 
with an effort, she brought herself to a sitting posture, 
with one arm still thrown over the pillow. The sun, sev- 
eral hours high, was trying to peep through the drawn 
curtains, and half succeeded, for one broken ray danced 
on the water in a pitcher near the window, while another 
slanted across the toilet-table and reflected itself in the 
mirror. Sleepily, and with her hair escaping from the con- 
finements of its pins, she put one foot on the carpet, then 
changing her mind, or, perhaps, finding it more comforta- 
ble where she was, she simply turned in bed and touched 
a bell. 

Instantly her maid entered. 

“Madame rang?” she said, in French. 

“Why, of course,” was the rather short response, given 
in the same language. “Bring my breakfast and my 
gown.” 

The woman held a delicate garment of silk and lace for 
her to put her arms into, and then left the chamber, to re- 
appear presently with a tray, on which she carried a pot of 
chocolate and a roll. 

Mademoiselle Florine sipped the chocolate and took a 
bite or two of the roll. Then she pushed them aside. 

“It is late, is it not?” she asked. 

“Ten o’clock, madame,” answered the maid, throwing 
open the blinds and letting in the fresh, balmy air, “and 


172 


“WHERE CAN SHE BE?' 


it is a beautiful day. Madame will drive this morning, I 
suppose? Eugene was here for orders, and I bade him 
wait.” 

‘‘No, I will ride. Get out my blue habit. Are there any 
letters?” 

“One, madame. Here it is.” 

Her mistress took the envelope, a square, blue affair 
with a large monogram conspicuously engraved on the 
back, and broke it open. 

“What good news 1” she exclaimed, involuntarily. “Dolly 
French is actually on her way here for a month. At last I 
shall have some one who can be some company for me. 
After all, Marie, I won’t ride this morning. Bring out my 
new gown; I’m going over to the casino.” 

The maid began to comb out her hair. 

“Pardon, madame,” she said, suddenly, “but I forgot to 
mention that a strange lady called half an hour ago and 
said she would return. She left no name. ’ ’ 

“Very well, I have not time to bother with any strange 
ladies to-day. Dress me quickly.” 

At this juncture the door opened, and a piquant little 
face, framed in the most ultra-fashionable of bonnets, 
thrust itself into the crack. 

“Bon jour, Mademoiselle Florine!” cried the owner of it, 
gayly . ‘ ‘ Comment c'a vaf ’ 

Florine moved her head so quickly at the voice that 
Marie dropped four hair-pins. 

“By all that’s unholy if it isn’t Dolly !” she exclaimed, 
jumping up from her low seat before the glass. “Why, I 
only just got your letter saying you were coming. Such a 
surprise! I am glad to see you ! When did you leave Lon- 
don?” 


“ WHERE CAN SHE BE f n 173 

“Ages ago,” was the retort, as Mrs. French, resembling 
more than ever a bit of porcelain in her striking costume 
of cream-colored cloth, trimmed with long, white fur 
which glistened like threads of silver in the sunshine, ad- 
vanced to embrace and be embraced. “I got tired of the 
poky hole and fled to Paris for new pleasures and new 
dresses. I found both, paid my bill with as good grace as 
possible, and started for this place two days ago. I’m de- 
voted to giving and receiving surprises ; that is, agreeable 
ones. Of course I heard of you, directly I arrived, and like 
a good friend, hunted you up without delay. So behold me, 
bag and baggage, come to ‘break the bank’ or ‘go broke’ 
myself. Voila tout.” 

“My dear, I have not words enough to express my de- 
light,” returned the actress. “What a jolly time we’ll put 
in ! Did you bring your horses?” 

“ Cela va sans dire and two French maids. I can chatter 
quite a bit to them now, too. Only, when I wish to blow 
them up, I generally spend half an hour or so beforehand 
in the society of my dictionary, hunting up the proper 
words and phrases to hurl at their stupid heads. They 
don’t dare to even look crosswise, you know, and even if 
my tongue does get twisted and I say the exact reverse of 
what I mean, it all goes and I gain my point. Oh, we’ll cut 
a dash here, you and I, for a while. I hear all sorts of tales 
already about your success and elegance.” 

A shade passed over Florine’s face. 

“But Dolly,” she began, with a tinge of sadness in her 
tone, “have you reflected that I have no position, no name 
even, on this side of the water? I am only an actress who 
has been fortunate enough to make a hit. In America ” 

The other interrupted her. 


174 


“ W 11 ft lift CAft iS lift BE?" 


“Granted, my dear, in America you would not be any- 
body, while in Europe I am quite as insignificant, so it’s 
about equal, isn’t it?” she said, benevolently. “Society is 
a farce anyway — a constant struggle to elevate yourself a 
little higher than your neighbor. Now, my poor, light, lit- 
tle head is subject to giddiness, so I prefer to remain on 
terra firma, where the most sensible, agreeable people are 
to be found, after all. I shall do as I please, select my own 
friends as I do the materials for my gowns. I am too inde- 
pendent to live by given rules. 1 enjoy being with you, 
and I throw myself upon your hands to be amused. What 
do you say?” 

“What can I say?” said the other, laughing, with evident 
pleasure, “except that you do me too much honor, and I 
shall do my best for you. Let me see, how can I demon- 
strate my appreciation of the compliment you pay me? Do 
you want to marry a title? If so, I know a nice young 
marquis, only a boy, it is true, but he adores blondes and 
is anxious to marry a rich American.” 

“No, I thank you,” responded Dolly, promptly. “I de- 
test boys. Have you forgotten my affair with that con- 
temptible little Gordon Russell? Caught him making love 
to Therese three weeks before the day we were to have 
been married ! Since then I have learned to value my free- 
dom beyond my diamonds. I was so sorry to be obliged to 
pack Therase off, too, as I’ve never found her equal since. 
But to change the subject, show me your jewels, won’t 
you? I hear you have a stack.” 

The maid, at a sign from her mistress, produced the 
heavy, inlaid box in which they were kept, and placed it 
on a table beside Mrs. French, who opened it with many 
an exclamation of womanish delight. 


“WHERE CAN SHE BE t" 175 

When the actress’ toilet was finished she ordered some 
fresh coffee, in which she burned a little kirsch, and the 
two women abandoned themselves to one of those long, 
confidential chats so dear to the female heart. 

“By the way,’’ remarked Mrs. French, glibly. “Do you 
ever see or hear anything of your sister?” 

“Never. Not once since I left home have I seen or heard 
of her.” 

“Well, I must tell you,” continued Mrs. French, drop- 
ping two lumps of sugar into her demi-tasse. “She came 
to my apartment just after you had sailed and raised no 
end of a tempest, leaving me in a state of absolute collapse. 
She went on at a great rate, accusing me in plain terms of 
spiriting you away, and as there was no arguing with her, 
I let her rage until she was through. When she had gone I 
was almost sick. I was under the impression that she 
meant to follow you, if possible, and skirmish around the 
globe until she finally got track of you. I don’t know what 
did become of her, either, as it appears she left the old 
home soon after, leaving no address or word of any kind.” 

“Left the old home!” repeated Florine, in consternation. 
“Where can she be?” 

“Heaven alone knows; no one on earth seems to, fori 
really took pains to inquire, both out of curiosity and for 
your sake.” 

After this the conversation flagged, as the actress appar- 
ently had lost interest and seemed preoccupied, so, as the 
clock struck, Mrs. French arose and took her leave, with 
many kisses and the promise to meet her friend later in the 
gambling-rooms. 

Mademoiselle Florine appeared unusually well that morn- 
ing, as she stepped forth, clad in her Paris toilet of gray 


176 


“WHERE CAN SEE BE?' 


silk and chinchilla, with a toque of the same, brightened 
with a bunch of violets, crowning her golden head. The 
faintest tinge of rose-color tinted her cheeks, and the deep- 
blue eyes, coquettishly darkened, were hound to bring dis- 
aster to more than one heart as she w T alked through the 
garden. 

The hands on the big clock in the hall were just pointing 
to midday as she descended the hotel stairs, examining 
with satisfaction her slender figure and piquant features in 
the mirrors which lined the walls. A group of men, chat- 
ting in the vestibule, nudged each other and gazed admir- 
ingly after her as she swept by, and a little flower-girl with 
a wistful expresion, thrust a bouquet of jonquils toward 
her, petitioning the “beautiful lady’’ to buy just a few 
sous worth for charity’s sake. These attentions, trifling as 
they were, flattered the vanity of the actress and involun- 
tarily her head assumed a higher pose and her step grew 
more elastic, as she continued. But she did not stop as it 
was already late. So the little girl went without her sous. 

In such haste was she to reach her point of destination, 
that she had not noticed the approach of a black-robed 
figure, and it was not until she heard her name spoken, that 
she looked up to see a woman standing in front of her. 
With a low, startled exclamation, she recoiled, as though a 
ghost had risen in her path. 

“Rose! I thought ’’ she stammered, flushing under 

her rouge. 

“You thought you would never see me again, is that 
what you were going to say?” was the reply. “Well, you 
see, fate has decreed otherwise. If you are not particularly 
engaged we might walk a little through these lovely 
grounds. The air is so fine this morning.” 


WHERE CAN SHE BE?” 


177 


These words were delivered as calmly and collectedly as 
though the two women were the merest strangers, who 
might have been introduced the day before. The young 
actress, who was gradually recovering herself, however, 
glanced sharply at her. The first shock of surprise was giv- 
ing way to a different feeling. 

“Certainly, ’’she responded, constrainedly, “by all means 
let us walk in the garden.” 

Neither spoke again, as they made their way along the 
broad, smooth path, lined on either side with foliage, so 
dense that only occasional glimpses of the blue sky over- 
head might be caught. The actress sauntered along with 
an easy, swinging gait, as though she was out for a morn- 
ing promenade and had made up her mind that neither 
care nor anxiety should take any part in it. Her compan- 
ion moved with lowered e3 T es and an expression of ill-con- 
cealed emotion on her mouth, which was in direct contrast 
to the half -smiling lips and bright looks of the other. 

They passed a number of people, most of whom were 
bound Casino-ward; Russians with bristling mustaches 
and beetling brows ; travelers from all parts of the world 
and in all conditions of society ; groups of pretty women, 
both in the world and out of it, some diamond-decked and 
with brazen faces ; others in the quietest toilets and of the 
most modest demeanor ; all bent upon the same errand, 
and each, perhaps, armed with a “system. ” Before the 
shrine of the fickle goddess, at Monte Carlo, caste is lost 
sight of; soubrettes may elbow princesses, and jockeys 
press against millionaires. 

When a somewhat secluded spot among the trees was 
reached, Rose broke the painful silence. 

“At last I have found you, Florence,” she uttered. 


178 


“ WHERE CAN SEE BE?” 


“Yes, sister, in spite of my endeavors, you have tracked 
me out,’’ was the chilling reply. 

“And you are an actress — a paid actress,’’ continued 
Rose. “You dance and sing on the stage, for your living. 
If papa could hut know ’’ 

“Surely there is no disgrace in that?” asserted the 
actress, guardedly, hut with a toss of her head, “and papa 
can never know.’’ 

“No disgrace?” repeated her sister, “if there he no dis- 
grace connected with it, why did you leave your home and 
me in such a manner?” 

“Simply because I knew your ideas on the subject. I 
knew you would either place me in an asylum for a luna- 
tic, or else give me into Father Moore’s hands for reforma- 
tion. I chose the only alternative, ” the actress answered, 
defiantly. 

“You acted with unpardonable cruelty.” 

“No; I was fully determined to go upon the stage. 
Listen, sister, let us not quarrel ; it is so long since we 
have seen each other that it would he wrong of us to allow 
harsh words to pass between us ; each of us has chosen her 
path in life, and the world is large enough for us both. 
Therefore, let us respect each other’s feelings and he care- 
ful what w r e say.” 

“Respect!” echoed Rose, bitterly. “What respect or 
consideration, may I ask, had you for my feelings? You 
went away in the most heartless manner possible, leaving 
me without the slightest knowledge as to whether you 
were dead or alive. Half wild with despair, and not know- 
ing where to turn for information, it suddenly occurred to 
me that Mrs, French might put me on your track. She, it 
transpired, was better posted than your own sister, and 


u WHERE CAN SHE BE?” 


179 


after some difficulty, I managed to force her to give me a 
clew as to your whereabouts. The contemptible little creat- 
ure was quite loath to do so, at first, hut I finally succeeded 
in inducing her to think that it was her duty to do so. 

“Discovering that you had gone to Europe in company 
with a common singing master, I made sacrifices which you 
can never understand to follow and save you, if possible.” 

“To save me — from what?” demanded the actress, with 
a cold glitter in her eyes. “It is really most flattering to 
learn that one is so important as you are making me out 
to be.” 

“Can you ask? From the life you are leading. You must 
have been blind — mad, when you undertook to go on the 
stage.” 

“Pardon me if I remind you that I was old enough to 
decide what kind of a career would suit me best, ” returned 
the younger sister, arching her brows, “and we were not 
so wealthy that earning my own livelihood was not to be 
considered. Besides, we had no ties ; there was nothing 
but your presence to keep me at home, and now I am inde- 
pendent of everybody ” 

“How fortunate!” uttered Rose, with suspicious calm- 
ness. 

“ so you see, perhaps I did not make such a serious 

mistake in behaving as I did, after all,” finished Florence. 

“It undoubtedly was a great thing for you,” observed 
Rose, in the same hard tone. “If our parents were only 
alive to witness your successes — to meet your friends — how 
gratified they would be!” 

The actress was brave enough usually, but she grew un- 
comfortable now, and the old fear of her sister’s displeas- 
ure returned to her in full force. She realized that there 


180 


“ WHERE CAN SHE BE ?” 


was no use in struggling, for each moment she was falling 
more and more under the stronger influence. 

She felt that Rose’s deep black eyes must penetrate to 
her very brain and read all the selfishness aud shallowness 
there. 

“What salary do you receive?” Rose asked, presently. 

“Five hundred francs a week,” replied the actress, 
proudly. 

“And you manage to wear such costumes on that sum? 
And they tell me you own fine horses and a country-seat in 
Normandy, to say nothing of sumptuous apartments in 
Paris. Truly, a franc must go as far as a dollar does in 
America.” 

The actress made no answer to this ironical assertion. 

“Or else your manager must possess a marvelous amount 
of confidence in you,” proceeded Rose, still quietly, “to ad- 
vance so much to you. Your ear-rings, for example, must 
have cost you a year’s pay, and that fleur-de-lis, in the lace 
at your throat, must he worth ” 

Florence’s nature had borne all it was able to endure, she 
never could hear to he found fault with, and this was 
worse than a scolding. She always had been a puppet, a 
mere infant, in the hands of her stronger-minded sister, 
and had never received anything but indulgence from her. 
The strain, therefore, was more than her over-burdened 
nerves could endure, so, taking her handkerchief from her 
belt, she put it to her face and hurst into sobs. Pretty, 
lady-like sobs they were, not calculated to make her nose 
red nor to swell her eyelids, but quite genuine for all that. 

Hitherto Rose had always melted at the sight of her dar- 
ling’s tears. They had never failed to accomplish their mis- 
sion or to gain the required result, and Florence had no 


“WHERE CAN SHE BE?” 


181 


reason to doubt, that they would he equally successful on 
this occasion. But, alas, she miscalculated, for when she 
took the tiniest little peep through the lace border of her 
mouchoir, she saw the same cold lines in the calm face be- 
fore her and noted an axpression of scorn there, which in 
all her life she had never before beheld. Thoroughly dis- 
turbed and ill at ease she remained silent. 

“You have not answered me, Florence,” uttered Rose, a 
second time. 

Impelled by the influence which had governed her all her 
life and which to her unutterable dismay she felt to be as 
strong upon her now as ever, Florence grasped her fleeing 
courage in both hands and responded, haughtily: 

“Suppose I were to suggest that your question was an 
impertinent one, Rose, and refuse to reply to it?” 

Pale and stern, Rose looked her sister straight in the 
face, and in a tone in which horror and loathing were min- 
gled, she said, in a low, concentrated tone : 

“You dare not answer me!” 

Florence’s heart was swelling with anger. It was an out- 
rage, neither more nor less, for any one to stand there and 
talk so shamefully to her. Had she not just explained to 
Rose that she was entirely independent of her? What right, 
then, had she to insult her in her own domain, as it were? 
A pretty piece of business, truly, for her to follow her all 
the way across the ocean simply for the pleasure of med- 
dling with her affairs and then, because they were not go- 
ing exactly in accordance with her straight-laced notions 
to abuse her as she would a thief. 

She was about to answer her sistar in the manner which 
she considered the situation justified, when restraining 
herself, she said instead, tenderly : 


182 


“WHERE CAN SHE BE?' 


“Kose,” why do you make yourself miserable on my ac- 
count? Believe me, I do not wish your pity nor deserve 
your scorn. I am as happy as most people. I am success- 
ful, flattered, popular, and have no wish ungratified. Wait 
and let me plead my cause. Have you forgotten my nature? 
We are so different, you and I — you must long ago have 
comprehended the fact that we are in no way qualified to 
live together. Our tastes always were diametrically op- 
posed. What you considered peace'and comfort in the old 
days disgusted me. You liked the humdrum life of Wall- 
ford. I detested it. You made an idol of me and denied 
yourself everything for my sake. I knew this ; I accepted 
the sacrifice — to please you. But in spite of all — your love 
— your indulgence, I was far from contented ; I felt like a 
caged bird. Well, at last I was offered an opportunity for 
freedom which I grasped. To-day I am somebody. Life is 
not spent in vain. It was always my ambition to amount 
to something, to shine before the world, and I have suc- 
ceeded beyond my wildest dreams. I fled from you as I did 
because I thought it best — the only way. You would have 
wept, pleaded, prayed to keep me at home, which would 
only have made matters worse, as I was tired to death of 
it all. Moreover, we were not surfeited with this world’s 
goods, you know— what we had was barely sufficient for 
the needs of one of us, and I always had high notions. So 
I left it all for you. They told me I could sing and act, so 
I was finally persuaded to find out if everybody had mere- 
ly flattered me. I came to Paris, though not ‘hurriedly,’ 
in the way you imagine, and got an engagement with- 
out difficulty. Now I can almost dictate my own 
terms.” 

‘‘But your jewels and the chateau in Normandy?” per- 


“WHK11K CAN SHE BE?” 


183 


sisted the older sister, relentlessly. “You have not yet 
answered me.” 

Florence moved impatiently, while a warmer color over- 
spread her cheek. 

“Pshaw!” she exclaimed, as though forced into an un- 
willing confession. “Rose, they are a natural outcome of it 
all, I suppose. My position throws horses and chateaux in 
my way, and I have learned to accept them as my right. 
There! I have told you the truth, and I feel better for it,” 
with a sigh of relief. “And if you are inclined to judge me 
harshly, or, in fact, to never notice me again, I will, I 
must, of course, abide by your decision. As I cannot offer 
you an acceptable excuse for my conduct, I will offer none. 
Despise me, if you must; it is too late to mend matters 
now. Only, through it all in future do me the justice to 
recollect the story of my love affair with Arthur Eldridge. 
Had he not shown himself a brute, I would have been his 
wife and a respected member of New York society to-day. 
He, and he alone, is responsible for my position, whether 
you choose to consider it disgraceful or not.” 

“Is this the truth?” demanded Rose, hoarsely, fixing her 
glance almost savagely upon her. “Remember of what a 
serious thing you are accusing this man.” 

“Would I lie to you about it? What could my object 
be?” demanded Florence, in her turn, standing her ground 
pale and defiant. “I will swear it, on my life, if you in- 
sist.” 

“I believe it; I must believe it,” said Rose, slowly, as 
though weighing each word. “Oh, Florence,” she went 
on, abruptly, her whole face changing, “it is not yet too 
late, not too late to return to me. Come, we will go away 
together and forget all the horrible past. You will never 


184 


“ WHERE CAS SHE BE?' 


know how I have suffered on your account and,” quickly, 
‘‘I never wish you to know. We will be all in all to each 
other, as in the old days. Let us leave this place with its 
hideous recollections and suggestions at once — to-night, if 
possible. You will never regret it, and I will — I do forgive 
you.” 

When these broken, passionately spoken words began to 
fall from her sister’s lips Florence stood staring at her in 
amazement. Then, as she went on, a disdainful little smile, 
which, before she had finished grew into a well-defined 
sneer, settled in the corners of her mouth. 

“I am inexpressibly sorry, Rose, if 1 have led you to 
misunderstand me, ” she said, frigidly; “it was entirely 
unintentional, I assure you. It is needless for me to assure 
you that your appeal touches my heart, and I would gladly 
grant your request if I could. But it is too late. What ! go 
back to the ennui and drudgery from which I have but 
just escaped? Never! The tiger has tasted blood; the beg- 
gar is in the saddle, and I would die rather than return to 
obscurity.” 

Rose turned slowly away, every trace of her recent emo- 
tion gone. There could be no mistaking Florence’s sincer- 
ity. 

“It is unnecessary, then, for any more words to pass be- 
tween us,” she said, speaking with an effort. 

“Don’t be angry with me! Oh, do not!” cried Florence, 
beseechingly, endeavoring to take her sister’s hand. “I dc 
appreciate your goodness, Rose, as I live, I do, only things 
are different now. What will you do? Where will you go — 
back to the old place? I shall like to think of you as there. 
But why not stay with me for a while? Perhaps you may 
grow to feel differently toward the world and me— -poor, 


“WHERE CAN SHE BE?” 


185 


unfortunate little me, who has always been such an anx- 
iety to you. You are so severe, so puritanical, Rose! Might 
you not, perhaps, learn to view things in a less narrow- 
minded light?” 

“There is but one course for me to pursue,” continued 
Rose, coldly, and not looking into the pleading face. 

“You wish to say that you will have nothing more to do 
with me?” uttered Florence, frowning. 

“I mean that henceforth you must go your way and I 
mine. We can have nothing further in common with each 
other.” 

“How hard, how unforgiving you are!” exclaimed Flor- 
ence, vehemently, falling back. “Still, it is exactly what I 
might have expected of you. Well, go, then — go back to 
your cows and chickens, your vespers and your dirty mis- 
sion brats, if it suits you. No doubt you despise me, my 
dear, but I cannot help it. I can discover no reason why I 
should make a martyr of myself, even for you. Bear in 
mind, however, that it isn’t my fault, that I was born poor. 
I always had a weakness for peaches in January and black 

pearls, and I mean to gratify my tastes if I can. I must 

What, are you going to leave me in anger? It must be as 
you choose, of course; I'll not try to detain you, though I 
call it rather shabby. Good-by, and good luck to you, ma 
chere soeur! Hear me!” with a deep sigh of relief, as her 
sister’s figure disappeared through the foliage; “how late 
I shall be at the tables ! I doubt if I can get even standing 
room. Thank Heaven that agony’s over!” 


186 


ARTHUR'S FOLLY. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

ARTHUR’S FOLLY. 

“ ‘Cannes, Villa Neuve — Tuesday. 

“‘My Dear Mrs. Eldridge: — lam more than sorry to 
learn from you that your husband has not been very well and 
trust that by this time he is quite himself once more. But 
I beg of you not to let that prevent you from coming to 
me, for the seventh. Coax him to allow you to take the 
short trip alone with your maid, and to join you as soon as 
he is able. I am selfish in thus persisting, perhaps, but if 
you only realized how anxious I am to have you grace my 
house-party with your charming presence, I know you 
would not refuse me. Sir Harvey, poor old man, is con- 
stantly raving over you, and I can safely promise that the 
attention which you will receive while with me will so 
hasten Mr. Eldridge’s recovery that he will follow you by 
the first available train. Wire what time to send for you, 
dear Mrs. Eldridge, and believe me, always, 

“ ‘Cordially your friend, 

“‘Adelina C. Barrow.”’ 

Gertrude read this sprightly epistle to her husband one 
balmy morning in March, as he was reclining on the divan 
in the morning-room. A slight attack of influenza had kept 
him confined to the house for a week, and even to his bed, 
for two days. He was able to sit up now, however, and, 
mandike, was setting everything at “sixes and sevens” by 
his restlessness to be up and out. 

His wife had been trying to entertain him for the last 
hour, much as one would a fretful child, but with indiffer- 
ent success. In spite of her varied and numberless attempts 
to interest him and make the time pass less heavily to him, 


ARTHUR'S FOLLY. 


167 


he sighed impatiently and cast longing glances at the invit- 
ing sunshine outside. 

The mail had just come in, and with her hands full of 
letters, Gertrude had returned afresh to her occupation. 
She was the picture of health and beauty in her blue silk 
matinee, trimmed with old lace, and her hair coiled loosely 
at the back of her neck. 

“Very civil of Lady Barrow, is it not, dear?” she re- 
marked, as she finished the letter. “She certainly appears 
to be sincere in her invitation, to write twice.” 

“Yes, you must accept. All the best people will be 
there.” 

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t for the world.” 

“For what reason, pray?” 

“Leave you ill, while I am enjoying myself somewhere 
else? I would be a proper wife, indeed.” 

“Nonsense! I’m well enough; I shall recover very quick- 
ly, if I’m given half a chance. It’s this everlasting cod- 
dling which keeps me flat on my back,” he returned, not 
very graciously. Then seeing the reproachful look his wife 
bent upon him, he instantly changed his tone. “No, I don’t 
mean that, darling, of course, you know, and your devo- 
tion is delightful ; only it is no end tiresome lying here 
bundled up like a sick baby, and I get infernally bored 
with it. Besides, if I thought I was depriving you of your 
liberty I would never forgive myself for the stupidity of it 
all. What’s so wrong with me, anyway? A little sore throat 
and fever, and yet I am starved and treated like a dying 
man. Go to Lady Barrow, if just to please me, and I’ll 
come as soon as I can; that’s a dear girl.” 

“But you recollect the doctor said you must be quiet,” 
persisted Gertrude, doubtfully, “and if I’m away ” 


188 


ARTHURS FOLLY. 


She might have concluded, “you’ll do everything that’s 
imprudent,” but she refrained. 

“I remember quite distinctly what the precious old 
quack’s injunctions were,” returned Arthur, disrespectful- 
ly, “and I’m not very apt to forget them either, with or 
without your presence, rest assured.” 

The anxious wife of his bosom failed to remark that 
there is a wide difference between “obeying” and “remem- 
bering,” and so, although not without misgivings, Ger- 
trude agreed to accept Lady Barrow’s invitation, and re- 
luctantly departed for Cannes the following morning, 
though not until she had entreated her husband to “be 
careful” and not to leave the house until he had received 
the doctor’s full permission. 

But, alas, no sooner was she safely started on her way 
than her husband, with one heroic kick, rid himself of his 
coverings, and hastily dressing himself, went for a walk 
in the garden and on his return indulged in the heartiest 
breakfast he had eaten for ten days. Encouraged by this, 
and feeling no worse, the next day, he ordered his horse 
and took a short gallop, leaving the information for the 
doctor who called, expecting to find his patient safely 
housed, that if he was wanted again word would be sent 
to that effect. 

On the way home from his ride, however, a sudden 
shower came up and in spite of his attempt to find shelter 
the imprudent man was wet to the skin. 

It was Miss Cameron who received him at the door, as 
chilled and exhausted, he almost fell off his horse, and 
after giving him into the charge of his valet she sent with- 
out delay for the doctor. The old man shook his head as 
lie noted the hot, dry skin and rapid pulse of his self-dis- 


ARTHUR'S FOLLY. 


189 


missed patient and after prescribing for him promised to 
stop in again a few hours later. He kept his word, only to 
find Mr. Eldridge in a raging fever. 

“Who permitted this man to commit such a folly as this? 
It was sheer suicide,” he demanded, impatiently, upon 
learning of his ride. On hearing that there was no one, 
save the unconscious victim himself upon whom he could 
fix the blame, he scolded no more, but on being told that 
Miss Cameron was in charge of the household and its affairs 
for the present, he called her aside. 

“You say Mrs. Eldridge is in Cannes?” he asked. 

“Yes, doctor, but she may be telegraphed for at once if 
necessary.” 

The man of medicine reflected a moment. 

“Not to-night. Fevers of this sort take a turn for the 
better or worse in a few hours, and I think he is not seri- 
ously ill. Give this to him faithfully yourself. Note well 
that you administer ten drops in water every two hours 
during the night — not more. Twelve would prove fatal. 
See, the directions are on the bottle. Can I trust you?” 

Miss Cameron received the vial with its contents of a 
deep-green hue, and shortly afterward the doctor took his 
departure. 

At seven o’clock the butler appeared at the door to know 
where she preferred to have her dinner served, for on 
pleasant evenings this meal was frequently partaken of on 
a little balcony opening off the library and overlooking the 
sea. 

“Bring a little tea and toast to my room in an hour, ” she 
replied. “Iam not hungry to-night. ” 

Then she re-entered the sick-chamber. 

Mr. Eldridge lay tossing as restlessly as ever, muttering 


190 ARTHURS FOLLY. 

now and then an incoherent word or a disjointed sentence. 

At the foot of the couch sat Henri, the valet, earnestly 
watching his master’s face and looking as helpless as a 
child. He was devoted to him, hut was utterly useless in 
this case. 

“You may go, Henri; I will stay with Mr. Eldridge. If I 
want you I will ring,” said Miss Cameron, kindly. “Re- 
main within call.” 

Evidently much relieved, the man resigned his post to 
her and left the room. 

Miss Cameron then lighted the lamp, turning the shade 
so that the rays fell away from the patient, drew the cur- 
tains, and placed the medicine and glass conveniently on a 
table. 

This done, she proceeded to bathe his heated forehead 
with cologne. 

Yielding, at last, to the magnetism of the soft, cool fin- 
gers and the refreshing waftings from the palm-leaf fan 
which she gently wielded, the uneasy head gradually set- 
tled, the breathing became more regular, and the heavy 
lids closed. 

Making sure that her patient really slept, she arose, and 
after calling Henri back to watch while she was gone, she 
went to her own room, where she changed her gown for a 
looser one, drank her tea, and prepared for an all-night’s 
vigil. 

The “Big Ben” in the hall was just striking eight as she 
recrossed her threshold. 

How still it seemed! No sound came from the servants, 
who were shut off from the rest of the house, and the 
silence was death-like. Her own footfall startled her, and 
coming suddenly upon her image reflected in a long mir- 


ARTHUR'S FOLLY. 191 

ror, she uttered a startled cry, so tall and black did it ap- 
pear. 

Mr. Eldridge was still dozing, and so, as it lacked fifteen 
minutes yet of the time when he was to take his medicine, 
she lowered the lamp, and throwing a wrap about her 
shoulders, stepped out upon the balcony. 


192 


“OH! I CAS AO T I 1 CANNOT V 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“oh ! i cannot! i cannot!” 

The express from Paris was lafce. Something went wrong 
with the cylinder of the engine, and the train had been 
obliged to wait two hours at Lyons for repairs. No sooner 
had this been attended to than an air-brake got out of 
order, and another stop was necessary a few miles farther 
on. All this required labor and patience, and by the time 
Marseilles was reached the good-nature of the passengers 
was well-nigh exhausted. 

At best, it is a long, wearisome ride, in stuffy quarters, 
and what with the dust and fatigue, the temper of the pas- 
sengers was sorely tried. As they issued from the com- 
partments in the station at Nice, gruff Germans expressed 
themselves in guttural tones, energetic Frenchmen in 
quick, jerky sentences fraught with many an exclamation, 
and shrill- voiced Americans gave vent to their disgust in 
such terms as : 

“My! but this service is perfectly dreadful — so abomin- 
ably slow, no system or management whatever!” 

Or: 

“Dear me! it isn’t so in the United States. I tell you, I 
guess not. Every employee on the train would get his 
walking-papers instantly if this occurred there.” 

Which is right enough, perhaps, in its way, as it only 
goes to prove how dear to the hearts of its countrymen is 
this land of progress of ours. 

One of the first to alight was Dick Forrest, who had “run 
up” to Paris a fortnight before to see his bankers. In fact, 


“OH! I CANNOT! I CANNOT I” 193 

he had been on the railroad so much of late, that his friends 
at the Villa Mignonne had seen but little of him. If any 
reason was ascribed by them to his frequent absences they 
had the good taste to make no mention of it. So, obeying 
his first impulse, he decided to stop at his apartments just 
long enough to change his clothes and dine and then ride 
over for a little visit with them. 

Caesar, who had been on the lookout for his master for 
several hours, soon put him into shape, and then, after 
fortifying himself with a cutlet, Milanaise, and a demi- 
tasse at the London House, he mounted his horse and was 
soon trotting along the water’s edge in the direction of his 
friend’s home. 

It was yet early on a quiet, peaceful evening, and the 
heavens were bright with stars. The thickly wooded hills, 
rising abruptly out of his pathway, looked dark and mys- 
terious, as though they might still be the hiding-place of 
some pirate king or refugee from justice. At his feet the 
water broke in sobbing ripples on the narrow strip of beach. 
An odor of seaweed, mingled with the scent of dew-wet 
leaves, greeted his nostrils. In the shadowy distance a ship 
wfith its tall, slender sails spread in the breeze, looked like 
a phantom. Alone on the most romantic road in Europe, 
is it surprising that Dick felt at peace with all the world 
and gradually fell into a delightful reverie? His thoughts 
kept pace with the rapid motion of the hoof-beats, and as 
his hand came in contact with the warm neck of his horse, 
he urged him into a faster pace, which he did not slacken 
until he beheld the lamps at the gates of the villa and bade 
“Bon soir” to the aged porter who peered curiously at him 
as he entered the long avenue of chestnuts. 

The Villa Mignonne occupied one of the most desirable 


194 


“OH! 1 CANNOT! 1 CANNOT!' 


sites to be found around Nice. Tlie original plan of the 
building had been, as its name indicated, quite small, but, 
having passed into the hands of younger and more preten- 
tious individuals, on the death of its former owner, it had 
been added to and changed, from time to time, until it "was 
now a dwelling of very fair dimensions. It was white, with 
innumerable turrets and balconies and a slanting roof. It 
was situated half -way up a low, heavily wooded hill and 
surrounded by a park filled with fine old trees. Extensive 
lawns, well kept and broken by neither flower-beds nor 
statues, stretched away on both sides until lost in the 
shade. A small lake lay to the right and was approached 
by a narrow path, lined with tall chestnuts. This sheet of 
water was fed by a diminutive fall which babbled noisily 
over the rocks and fell into the basin below with a spiteful 
little dash. 

This was one of the most attractive spots in the grounds, 
and it was here that Dick was almost certain to find Miss 
Cameron on pleasant days. She would occupy herself for 
an entire morning with a book, seated on the velvety turf, 
or, with Mrs. Eldridge, -would stroll through the olive 
groves, drinking in the pure air and admiring the fine 
view. 

As Dick rode slowly up the driveway he discovered, to 
his surprise, that the house was in almost total darkness. 
The lamps at the foot of the flight of stone steps were burn- 
ing low, but otherwise it appeared as though every one in- 
side was asleep. 

He drew rein and took out his watch ; it was early. They 
were usually just finishing dinner at that hour. It was not 
uncomfortably cool, and he knew that frequently, when 
the weather permitted, coffee was served outside. Instinct- 


“OH! 1 CANNOT! 1 CANNOT!" 


195 


ively he listened for some sound — talking, a peal of light 
laughter, or the tinkle of a spoon against a cup. But all 
was silent. He was puzzled. 

“This is interesting!” he ejaculated, mentally. “I won- 
der if they’ve all retired? Or they may have gone out. If 
so, I shall be in a flunk.” 

He was obliged to ring twice before any one answered, 
and then the door was opened by the English butler, who 
apparently was half asleep. 

“I beg pardon, Mr. Forrest,” he stammered, in confu- 
sion, as he recognized the visitor, “but bein’ as the master 

is in ” 

“111?” interrupted Dick, without waiting for him to 
finish his apology. “Ill, you say ” 

“Yes, sir, this week and more, and worse to-night, bad 
luck, with Mrs. Eldridge away. But he went for a ride, 
imprudently, say I, and ” 

“But he is not alone?” cut in Dick, for the second time. 

“No, sir; it’s Miss Cameron is with him all the evenin’ 
and the doctor ” 

But Dick was half way up the staircase by this time. 

“You need not announce me,” he turned back to say. 

Making his way rapidly along the upper hall, he ap- 
proached Arthur’s door, which was closed. 

He could see, however, that the one separating the in- 
valid’s chamber from the “little library,” as it was called 
—a small cozy apartment, in which Mr. and Mrs. Eldridge 
spent most of their time when alone, was wide open, for a 
square of light lay across the sill. 

Thinking it better to enter by this way than to knock, 
and so probably disturb the patient, Dick stepped into the 
library, ’which was lighted only by candles. 


106 


“OH ! 1 CAHKOTl 1 CANHOTV 


His footfalls upon the heavy rugs thrown everywhere 
upon the hard wood floor made no sound. Uncertain as to 
just how to proceed next without startling the inmates of 
the room unnecessarily, he stood still a moment, hesitat- 
ing. 

Arthur lay on the lounge with his face away from the 
softly shaded lamp-light and his arms tossed above his 
head. There was no one with him. Dick took a step for- 
ward, when suddenly he halted a second time. The cur- 
tains of the long window opening into the balcony were 
parting, and in another instant Miss Cameron stood in the 
room. She approached the couch and for a moment stood 
intently watching the unconscious man’s face, little dream- 
ing that another pair of eyes w T ere fixed upon her with a 
gaze which, had she met it directly, must have spoken vol- 
umes to her. Dick’s pulses quickened as he noted the slim, 
graceful outlines of her figure. How beautiful, how stately 
she was in her simple costume! No empress in all her 
grandeur could impress him as this woman did. Dick re- 
membered her, ever after, as he saw her there, silent, mo- 
tionless in her somber gown, relieved only by a white col- 
lar and cuffs, the back of her neck, from which the dark 
hair rose, looking like ivory by contrast. She was bending 
over the sick man and appeared to be listening to his 
breathing. Presently she lifted her head and consulted the 
clock. It was ten minutes past nine. Still she did not stir, 
until a murmur from the invalid fell upon her ear. 

“I am thirsty.” 

Then only she turned and moved deliberately toward the 
table, and as she did so the light fell clearly upon her feat- 
ures, and to his surprise, Dick could see that she was 
ghastly pale. 


OH! I CANNOT! 1 CANNOT! 


197 


She had the appearance of a somnambulist. Dick feared 
to startle her by an abrupt word or movement, so he still 
kept silence. First, she took up a glass and filled it with 
water from a decanter ; then her fingers closed upon the 
vial, which she slowly pulled toward her. Once more the 
invalid groaned restlessly, and at the sound she started 
nervously, but all becoming quiet again, she drew the cork 
with feverish haste, an unnatural light glowing in her 
eyes. The strangeness of her manner caused a nameless 
dread to flash across Dick’s brain, and a horrible fascina- 
tion compelled his gaze and held him breathless while she 
rapidly dropped the liquid into the goblet. 

Nine drops fell from the bottle — ten, and then, after a 
slight hesitation, four — six more, followed. Yet another 
inarticulate moan issued from the couch and caused her to 
lift her face, each feature of which expressed over-power- 
ing excitement ; each line horrible tension. 

A numbness appeared to have seized Dick’s limbs ; he 
could neither move nor speak. 

“Gertrude, some w T ater, darling.” 

Seizing the glass convulsively, she started across the 
room, the same wild, unearthly look on her face— it was 
like the expression of one laboring in the throes of a hide- 
ous dream. Powerless with apprehension, Dick stood 
rooted to the spot. 

With stealthy steps, she approached nearer and nearer 
the sofa, until she was but a few feet away from Dick, who 
feared she must hear the thumping of his heart against his 
ribs. 

All at once her hand faltered, the fingers unclasped them- 
selves, allowing the glass to fall to the floor, and she stag- 
gered back, crying, with a low moan: 


198 


“OH ! I CANNOT ! I CANNOT! 


“I cannot; oh, my God, I cannot!” 

Then she groped blindly toward the door, pushed aside 
the portiere, and found herself face to face with Dick For- 
rest. 


“J GAN HOT BE YOUR JUDGE.' 


199 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“i CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE.” 

Dick was blessed with all the wholesome repugnance of 
a sensible man for “scenes” and seldom failed to make his 
escape whenever there was a chance of one’s occurring in 
his presence. Yet here was material enough for a modern 
melodrama of the most pronounced type, and the worst of 
it was, that he himself occupied no mean position in it. 
Willingly would he have given all he possessed to be able 
to blot out forever those few moments from his life and 
memory. 

It was too late to draw back ; her eyes were fastened 
upon him with a look of agonized supplication. She stag- 
gered again and would have fallen at his feet, had he not 
caught her. Then she drew herself away from him and 
stood erect, as motionless as though stiffening into stone. 

“I saw all, and you are mad — mad, I say,” he uttered, 
in a voice which he scarcely recognized as his own. 

“So I may be,” she returned. 

The glitter had died out of her eyes, and her face was 
drawn and haggard. 

“You intended to poison him!” 

She did not move. 

“I do not deny it,” she returned, calmly. 

“My God! what a woman you are, ” exclaimed Dick, “not 
to have the grace, at least, to defend yourself!” 

“What w T ould be the use?” she demanded, impassively. 
“You say you saw it all. I would scorn to lie about it.” 

Dick’s first impulse was to thrust her from him, to bid 


200 


“J CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE. 


her go and never return, but his second, as he noted the 
helpless, resigned attitude, was more charitable. 

Satisfying himself that the invalid was sleeping and un- 
conscious of all that had transpired, he turned to her and 
said: 

'‘Come!” 

Instinctively, as he saw her strength and will deserting 
her, his own returned, and he felt himself master of the 
situation. 

‘‘I will go,” she replied, simply. 

But he detained her almost fiercely. 

‘•No, you shall explain to me first.” 

At this, she drew herself up haughtily. 

‘‘I have not agreed to do so,” she said; then, as though 
having reflected, she continued, ‘‘but I do not refuse. Per- 
haps it is due both you and myself.” 

With abruptness born of nervousness, he stepped for- 
ward and renewed his grasp upon her arm, when she sud- 
denly faced him. 

‘‘Mr. Forrest,” she uttered, evenly. ‘‘You are laboring 
under a false impression. I shall not try to elude you. On 
the contrary, I shall compel you to listen to my justifica- 
tion.” 

During that brief instant each of them felt one of those 
keen emotions which once in a life-time, perhaps, seem to 
sweep over our entire being and thrill us from head to 
foot. A sudden giddiness overcame Dick ; all the blood in 
his veins appeared to rush to his brain. 

She, however, remained cold and collected. 

Dick crossed his arms, and motioning her to a chair, he 
bowed his head. 

She refused the seat w T it.h a slight gesture. 


“J CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE. 


201 


“If you will open the window ’’ she said. 

He obeyed, and the heavy, salt breath of the water filled 
the library. Through the branches of a clump of trees just 
outside patches of the sea, silvery and hazy, showed 
through. 

Supporting herself against the window-frame, she al- 
lowed the breeze to blow full upon her. 

She did not speak at once, but half stood, half leaned, 
bathed in the soft candle-light which brought into relief 
her clear-cut features and the black gown she wore. 

The room was full of flickering shadows, and the plash- 
ing of the sea below was heard. 

There was a short silence, broken, at length, by her. 

“I shall ask you to listen to a story. It is simjjle and one 
which you will understand,’’ she said, turning suddenly so 
that her figure was wholly in darkness. “Let me, then, 
begin by confessing that I am a living lie ; I am not a de- 
pendent, either by birth or circumstances, but have chosen 
the position I now occupy for reasons of my own. It makes 
no difference to you what my true name or station may be, 
and neither do I intend to inflict my family history upon 
you. It will suffice for me to tell you that I entered this 
household with but one motive, one purpose, and that was 
to be near Arthur Eldridge. You infer, perhaps, from this 
admission that I either am, or have been, in love with him, 
and that my desire not to be entirely separated from him 
resulted from that fact. But if so, you wrong both of us. 
Mr. Eldridge never met me, nor I him, until he was mar- 
ried. Every one knows that he is de /oted, heart and soul 
to his wife, and that he scarcely seems to realize the exist- 
ence of another woman ; is it not so? And that it would be 
vain for another to try to win even so much as an admir- 


202 


“J CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE. 


ing glance from him. Oh, yes,” bitterly, “he loves her 
dearly, very dearly, indeed ; he leaves no wish of hers un- 
gratified.” 

She paused and drew a sharp breath. “Therefore, ” she 
resumed, “you may be astonished to hear that precisely as 
he now sits at her feet and gazes tenderly into her eyes, so 
he did to another woman just before he paid court to Mrs. 
Eldridge. ” 

“Impossible!” ejaculated Dick, positively. 

“Yet, it is true, ” returned Miss Cameron, calmly; “un- 
fortunately only too true.” 

Dick made an incredulous movement. 

“Miss Cameron,” he uttered, “there is some absurd mis r 
take here. 1 have known Arthur Eldridge for years — ever 
since he was a mere boy. This affair — but never mind; 
continue. ’ ’ 

“Allow me to proceed,” rejoined Miss Cameron. “I have 
not yet made any grave charge against him, have I? Mr. 
Eldridge met the person I speak of, a very young and in- 
experienced girl — an orphan — at the house of a mutual 
friend in the city. Attracted by her youth and beauty, he 
instantly laid siege to her and finally proposed marriage. 
Fascinated by his brilliant manners, his handsome face, 
and all those attributes which go to make up the stock-in- 
trade of a man of the world, is it any wonder that she fell 
hopelessly in love with him? To her cost it was. however, 
for he soon wearied of the simple little country girl, and 
meeting another woman of his own sphere, more brilliant, 
and better calculated, no doubt, to fill the high position he 
had to offer her as his wife, he deserted in the most das- 
tardly manner the one who had nothing to recommend her 
outside of her pretty face and winning ways. Thus freeing 


“Z CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE . 


203 


himself, he hastened to marry his new love. It is the old 
story. Finding that he had tired of her and had no inten- 
tion of keeping his fine promises, the unfortunate child re- 
turned to her home, heart-broken and dismayed, trusting 
to find in her sister — her only living relative — the consola- 
tion she so sadly needed. But it was a fruitless hope; her 
stay in town, where life was one incessant search after 
pleasure and excitement, had spoiled her for a quiet exist- 
ence, and it was only when nearly driven to desperation 
that she finally confided her sorrow to her sister. 

“I will not dwell upon the effect her confession pro- 
duced. You will understand how impossible it would be to 
do so, when I tell you that this sister, several years her 
senior, had brought her up from babyhood and had cared 
for her as she had cared for no other being on earth. It 
goes without saying she did all in her power to comfort 
and soothe her, but she soon realized that her words were 
of little avail, for the young girl drooped and pined from 
day to day. At last — and this is the most pitiful part of my 
story — one night she disappeared, leaving no trace be- 
hind. 

“Can you imagine the state into which that deserted sister 
was thrown? No, you cannot, nor can any one on earth. 
To do so one must understand that she had been brought 
up in the simplest manner, was a devout Catholic, and had 
led the most monotonous kind of a life. She awoke, as I 
say, to find a note from her sister, declaring that she had 
found her present conditions unendurable, and was there- 
fore going away to try to find peace and contentment else- 
where.” 

Again she ceased speaking. Dick sat with folded arms 
and contracted brows. 


204 


“I CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE . 


“She was going out in the world with neither money nor 
friends to assist her. 

“Well, I suppose despair drove the woman distracted,’’ 
she resumed, “for she changed completely from that time. 
She lost faith in heaven itself. Naturally, she strove to 
find the girl, and failing in that, she determined to locate 
herself as near as possible to the man whose baseness had 
driven all the joy and pleasure out of two lives. In this 
chance favored her, and she entered his very household. 
You will wonder what her motive for doing this was. I 
honestly assure you I cannot say. Perhaps she wished to 
feel that he was in her power, in a certain measure; possi- 
bly it was because she thirsted for information of the girl 
which she thought she might obtain through him in some 
way. ‘ On revient toujours a ses premiers amours , ’ and 
there was a bare chance that he might know where she 
had fled to, after all. But she learned nothing, although 
she watched and spied upon him, like a detective. It soon 
transpired that he knew as little about her as she did, and 
that he never experienced a remorseful moment. He was 
seemingly perfectly happy, always; completely wrapped up 
in the woman he had married. She, I will acknowledge, 
was as sweet and beautiful as any woman could be, and 
well deserving of any man’s devotion, so I do not wonder 
that he was passionately fond of her. But never did he 
cast even so much as a regret — a thought, apparently, 
toward the young creature who had trusted him and had 
had every right to occupy the position now filled by an- 
other.” 

Dick walked up and down the room in agitation. He 
could not help anticipating what her next words would 
be. 


“I CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE. 


205 


“Miss Cameron,” lie said, stopping before her, “where 
did you learn this story?” 

She threw her head back with a gesture of despair. 

“From the best of sources; it was my own sister.” 

“And so, with no more certainty — no real reason, in fact, 

you prepared this frightful retaliation ” uttered Dick, 

with a shudder. 

“Hear my story to the end,” she rejoined, sinking wear- 
ily into a seat; “let me finish it as I began. The famity the 
woman entered as companion soon went abroad, which 
suited her perfectly as she knew that her sister was some- 
where in Europe, and she might therefore run across her. 
But months passed with no result. Hours at a time she 
wandered in vain in the streets of all the large cities, hop- 
ing against hope. At last, one evening, she saw her in the 
principal role of a comic opera, which all gay Paris had 
applauded — saw her in a costume which just escaped being 
indecent, singing resque songs in an inimitable fashion of 
her own which made her sister’s blood run cold though it 
caused even the most blase of the audience to roar with 
laughter. What did these people know of her historj', or 
knowing, what could they be expected to care? The world 
must be amused at any cost, and it turns its head away 
rather than catch a glimpse behind the scenes. It infinite- 
ly prefers the mask to the face, which is but natural, as it 
has tears enough of its own with which to occupy itself. 
Well, she sat through as much of the performance as she 
could endure, and then blessed oblivion relieved her. When 
she came to again, she was in the carriage. 

“Her search for her sister had been rewarded, but how’ 
cruelly ! For some reason, even in her most despairing 
hours she had never connected her in her mind with the 


206 


“/ CANNOT BE YOUR JUDGE. 


stage. It was the very last occupation to which she could 
picture her resorting, and she had been taught to regard it 
with contempt. I must repeat,” with the ghost of a smile, 
“that this poor, unsophisticated woman was totally un- 
learned in the curious ways and means of this world of 
ours, and had nursed the fatuous belief that her innocent 
little sister would starve rather than go on the stage. 
Nevertheless, the following day, she sought out the actress 
at her hotel and found her without difficulty, as her name 
was in everbody’s mouth — her reckless extravagance a by- 
word. 

“As might be concluded, her reception under the exist- 
ing circumstances was not particularly cordial, and the 
young girl showed a disposition to be very independent, so 
high-headed and vain had her success rendered her. She 
acknowledged, with no scruple whatever, apparently, that 
she had lost sight of every religious and moral obligation, 
and regarded her old life with absolute aversion. The stu- 
pidity and narrowness of it depressed her, even in the recol- 
lection, she frankly owned. In spite of this, however, the 
other implored her to come back to her, only to be sneer- 
ingly repulsed. The gayety and frivolity of her present 
thoughtless existence served to blot out much of the re- 
membrance of the miserable past, and the excitement 
buoyed her up. Always fond of admiration, the adu- 
lation she was constantly receiving was food and drink 
to her at this period, and really it was calculated to 
turn a much stronger head than that of Mademoiselle 
Florine.” 

“Florine!” cried Dick, starting back. “Impossible!” 

She looked up at him, a painful smile hovering upon her 
lips. 


“I CMAiWT ££ T0 67i JUDGE." 207 

“You did not follow me, then? You must have 
known ” 

She faltered and paused. 

Dick put his hand to his forehead in a bewildered man- 
ner. 

“There is some awful mistake here,” he protested, con- 
fidently. “I know positively that Arthur never even met 
Mademoiselle Florine. ” 

Her delicate nostrils dilated with anger. 

“And I know to the contrary,” she returned. “What, 
do you suppose I am entertaining you with a fairy story? 
However, ’’she went on, more gently, “it is true she is 
much altered in appearance since even the time when I 
last saw her. Mademoiselle Florine, in her gorgeous cos- 
tumes, and with the hundred and one artistic little touches 
which go to complete her toilet, is a very different looking 
person from plain little Florence Delmar.” 

Dick’s head was in a whirl; he did not know what to 
think or say. The only person who could set this wretched 
matter straight was in no condition to answer any ques- 
tion, rational or irrational. The situation was a complicated 
one, it is true, and looked rather black for Arthur. Still, 
in his inmost heart, he could not doubt his old friend. Not 
for a second did his faith in him waver. He took a few 
more paces the length of the room and then stopped ab- 
ruptly in front of her. 

“Miss Delmar, as I must now call you,” he began, 
quietly, “now that you have spoken plainly, I will be 
equally candid and acknowledge to you that your sister’s 
name is not an unfamiliar one to my ears. In fact, I heard 
Arthur speak of her more than once before he was married. 
I do not deny, either, that he may have cared for her, and 


208 


" I CANNOT BE YOUli JUDGE. 


possibly have gone far enough to propose marriage to her. 
So much I admit, hut that he acted toward her in the 
abominable, cowardly fashion of which you accuse him I 
cannot believe. I would stake my life on his honor. ” 

A flame leaped into her eyes. 

“Then,” she said, deliberately, in a suppressed tone, “I 
am to understand that you doubt my word.” 

“I believe that you have been misinformed as to the true 
state of the case.” 

“Ah!” she uttered, in a despairing tone, “you think I 
have not considered all that? That I am not capable of 
judging truth from falsehood? Have I, do you imagine, 
spent the best years of my life in chasing a phantom? No, 
Mr. Forrest, my sister’s whole conduct in this affair has 
borne testimony to the truth of her statements. I loved 
her devotedly, but not so blindly as to have been unable to 
see her faults. She could not have deceived me. 

“I am not wordly wise, I grant you, and most of my days 
have been passed in the companionship of my books, but 
the child was always my first consideration. I believe no 
mother could have brought her up more carefully or deli- 
cately than I did. I knew her nature, her disposition — al- 
most her very thoughts, so well ; do you then believe she 
could impose upon me in so serious a matter? It would 
have been absolutely out of her power, I assure you. 

‘“Concealing my feelings from her, as well as I could, 
then— -for I would have died rather than allow her to see 
how terribly she had wounded me with her insolence — I 
made my way back here. 

“Yes, with her scornful laugh ringing in my ears, I once 
more returned to this roof, to the presence I now doubly 
loathed, to the bread which was ashes in my mouth. Why? 


"I CANNOT BN YOUR JUDGE .” 


209 


you will ask. First, because I could not conquer the desire 
to remain near her, even though it tortured me, and then, 
again, the last words she cast at me that day were, ‘Arthur 
Eldridge is responsible for this. Had he kept his promise 
to me, I would have been his wife and an honored member 
of society to-day. ’ To think of the difference, it drove me 
wild. To-night he lay in my power; is it surprising that I 
almost yielded to the frightful temptation which assailed 
me? Answer me; is it surprising?” 

Her head fell upon her breast; the last words were 
spoken in a whisper. 

Dick put his hands over his eyes ; he could not bear to 
meet the supplicating ones which sought his. 

‘‘I cannot be your judge, ” he murmured, in a low, broken 


voice. 


210 


you kjso w i love you: 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU.” 

“It would not have been difficult, you know; only a few 
drops more than prescribed by the doctor, and Florence 
would have been avenged. How my heart beat when I real- 
ized this ! A perfect frenzy seemed to possess me and con- 
trol my actions. There he lay, powerless and alone, entire- 
ly at my mercy. I gloated over him like a very devil, my 
pulses throbbing, my body shaking and burning by turns. 
“He called for water; now was my chance. Seizing the 
deadly draught I moved toward him, when all at once — 
how shall I describe it? His very helplessness cried aloud 
to me; my fingers refused to perform their mission and — 
he was saved!’’ 

Dick approached and took her hand in both his own. He 
was strongly agitated, and she felt, rather than saw, that 
he was regarding her fixedly. She would have risen, but 
he detained her. 

“It was your nobility of character alone which prevented 
you from committing a crime. God be thanked that it is 
so,” he murmured. “What a lot yours has been! At least, 
your fortitude has been marvelous. My poor, misguided 
child, why have you such a self-reliant nature? Such na- 
tures may be the strongest, but yours has been your curse. 
Into what stony paths it has led you ! Why did you not 
confide a part of your troubles, if not all, to some one?” 

“To whom, pray,” she returned, coldly, “would I have 
gone? You forget how utterly alone in the world we two 
were, and from childhood I lacked the faculty of making 
friends.” 


“ YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. 


211 


“Would it have been difficult for you to have found at 
least one who was interested in you— who might have as- 
sisted you and would have done so only too gladly?’’ he 
said. 

At this demonstration of forbearance and sympathy the 
hot tears filled her eyes, and for the first time she came 
near losing her self-possession in his presence. He felt that 
she was trembling violently. 

At sight of her emotion everything else was forgotten. 

Impulsively he held out his arms to her. 

“Why did you not turn to me?” he whispered. “I love 
you. You know I love you!” 

But she drew back wearily. 

“Love?” she repeated, dreamily. “What can I ever know 
of love as other women know it? The pleasures of this life 
must he a closed hook to me now and always. My cross 
has been a heavy one, hut I must bear it to the end — alone. 
My whole life has been one long sacrifice— one constant 
struggle, and to what purpose? What has it profited either 
her or myself? Is she a whit the better for the burdens I 
have borne for her sake — for the fact that I have given up 
everything that she might be cared for and shielded from 
harm? There can be but one answer to this, and yet I 
must not complain; I must believe that it is all ‘for the 
best.’ Listen !” and she leaned a little toward him, catch- 
ing her breath quickly with a sobbing sound. “It cannot 
be wrong of me to tell you now what is in my heart — to 
allow you to know what you are to me. Perhaps, as you 
just said, I am mad, but somehow it consoles me to be able 
to open my heart entirely to you. Ah ! I do love you, and 
it was my love for you that kept me here so long. In 
spite of what you choose to call my strength of character, 


212 


“ YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. 


I could not go away and run the risk of never seeing you, 
never hearing your dear voice again, I was weak to cow- 
ardice. Day by day you became more and more to me, un- 
til for your sake, I might even have come to the point of 
abandoning my search for her. What claim had she upon 
me, after all, deserting me as she did? The deeper your 
face entered into my thoughts, the less distinct her image 
became. When, oh, that fatal day when I discovered her 
portrait in your room. Only too well did I recognize her 
features, her smile. It was through you that my fruitless 
search for her was rewarded, though heaven knows I would 
gladly have given up all hope of seeing her again, under 
the circumstances. Still, my sense of duty returned upon 
me with a rush, and I strove to crush out every other 
thought that might conflict with it. If we had met sooner 
I might have had the strength to bear the shock; at any 
rate, I might have found some consolation, and all might 
have gone well. But now it is impossible that there be any 
peace or happiness for me ever. She has been a blight on 
my life, as he has on hers, poor child. No, the woman you 
marry must come to you with no suspicion resting upon 
her ; confidence cannot exist where reproach is possible. 
Oh, ’’and she lifted to his her beautiful eyes, “may it com- 
fort you in the days to come, to realize what a blessing your 
love has been to me. It has been the one bright spot in 
my whole life.” 

Again he seized her hands. 

“You are morbid, not yourself,” he expostulated. “In 
a short time you may— you must regard all this in another 
light. Do not be hasty. Why should your life be over? I 
ask you to be my wife, but I do not compel you to reply at 
once. On the contrary, I urge you to take your own time 


“ YO U KAO W I LO VE YO U.” 


213 


— I -will wait patiently a month, a year if need be, only do 
not snatch away all hope from me. You have been through 
so much and have borne it so bravely — but even your 
strength may fail, and you may be willing at last to lean 
upon me.” 

But she shook her head sadly. 

‘‘It cannot be,” she said, despondently, “glad as it 
would make me to allow even one ray of hope to enkindle 
in my own breast. I have the courage to look further into 
the future than you, and I am convinced that if I were to 
consent to what you ask, one or the other of us would bit- 
terly repent, and soon. I have lost the one attribute so 
necessary to close companionship — in the beginning, at any 
rate — my youth. I cannot comfort myself, therefore, what 
consolation could I offer you? It is my punishment, I sup- 
pose, for making an idol of a frail human creature, and it 
is just. She has failed me, and I deserve that it should be 
so. No, I shall do you a kindness in refusing to listen to 
you, though you cannot bring yourself to feel so now. 
Some people, you know, ’’with a mournful attempt at a 
smile, “are born under an unlucky star; I am one. I shall 
go, and you will forget me in time. It is better so.” 

And bending upon him a look of infinite affection and 
tenderness before he could open his lips to speak again, she 
had gone. 


2U 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 

It was late, a dismal afternoon in February. All day a 
cold, drizzling rain had been falling, and freezing as it fell. 
The air was damp and chilly, with occasional gusts of 
piercing wind, which threatened to tear the clothing from 
one’s back. 

Fifth avenue was full of sliding, slipping horses and 
shouting drivers who used the whip freely to keep the 
struggling brutes on their feet. People who were obliged 
to walk did so hurriedly, with bent heads and umbrellas 
held tightly with both hands. 

It was dismal enough out doors, but inside the U 

Club the reverse was the case. Here, all was bright and 
cheerful. Fires glowed in the fire-places and lounging 
chairs drawn close to racks filled with reading-matter of 
every description, invited all who were disposed to take 
their ease, while pool and card-tables stood in readiness 
for such as were inclined to amusement. 

It was too early yet for the gas to be lighted, and so a 
few members had seated themselves by the windows to en- 
joy the “sights” before darkness closed in. 

One man had settled himself in a corner with a paper 
and a brandy and soda, of which he took an occasional sip, 
more as though to pass the time than if he had any par- 
ticular craving for it. 

It was fast growing dusk and too dark to read by day- 
light much longer, so he was about to fold up his paper 
when a remark from somebody in the window arrested his 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


215 


attention. He glanced out just in time to see a private han- 
som, drawn by a big gray, stop at the curb, deposit its sole 
occupant, and drive rapidly away again. 

“Hello, here comes Arthur Eldridge,” said the speaker, 
lazily. “Got another new horse, I see. By Jove, that man 
has the very smartest traps in town, bar none.” 

“As far as I can make out,” put in another, with an 
equal amount of fashionable languor, “he has the very 
smartest everything in town, bar nothing.” 

“Why on earth shouldn’t he?” demanded a third, with 
some energy, “for if ever a fellow was born with a silver 
tea-set, tray and all, in his mouth, he was.” 

This brilliant flash of wit pioved so entertaining to the 
others that the bell was touched at once. 

Meanwhile the subject of their conversation had entered 
and was pulling off his gloves, when he espied the man 
with the paper in the corner. 

“Well, Dick, old man,” he said, jovially, as he ap- 
proached him, “a nice, tidy bit of weather we’re having, 
isn’t it? This is the third day of it, and no signs of clear- 
ing yet. Ugh! it’s enough to give one the ‘blue devils.’ 
Waiter, bring me a brandy and soda— anything to brace 
me up.” 

Dick, for it was the same Dick Forrest as ever, though 
three years had left their traces in the wavy mustache and 
turned one lock of the curling hair quite white, looked 
once more into the street. 

It was sleeting now, and the lights along the sidewalk 
cast quivering, elongated reflections, in the puddles. 

“It will be a beastly night,” he observed. “I don’t think 
I shall stir from here.” 

“Yes, you will,” declared his friend. “You will come 


216 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


and dine with us, enfamille. We had an engagement, but 
it’s too unpleasant to keep it.” 

‘‘Thanks, very much,” returned Dick, ‘‘I cannot refuse 
you. How are madame and the little one?” 

‘‘Very fit. By the way, you know we intend to call the 
youngster Richard Forrest. Does the suggestion suit you? ’ ’ 
‘ ‘Suit me!” exclaimed Dick, his whole countenance beam- 
ing. “It’s the greatest possible compliment, of course. But 
really, it’s too cruel to name the boy after such a good-for- 
nothing as I am. How came you to think of me?” 

“I don’t know,” dryly, “I am sure. Strange to say, 
though, the idea suggested itself to both my wife and my- 
self simultaneously. I’m glad it meets with your ap- 
proval.” 

“I cannot begin to express my gratification, ” declared 
Dick, simply. “So I sha’n’t try. Now I’ve got what I so 
sadly need — an object in life. Depend upon it, the lad 
shall be my especial charge, and while I’ve a cent to bless 
myself with, he shall have half if he wants it. I must buy 
him a lot of toys at once, mustn’t I? Let me see — he must 
have a silver mug the first thing, and a napkin ring with 
his name on it, and a music-box, a bear that stands on its 
hind legs and growls; that will amuse him, eh? And a lit- 
tle man who saws wood. You put him over the register, 
you know, and the heat does the business. Oh, yes, and a 

goat-cart and a pony, later on ” 

“And a racing stable in a year or two, not forgetting 
rifles and pistols of the latest make when he is in short 
coats,” laughed Arthur. “All in due season, however, old 
man ; just at present he is very much interested in biting 
his thumbs and— yes, candor compels me to admit — in ex- 
ercising his already powerful young lungs. Dick,” he 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


217 


broke out, in a burst of enthusiasm, “hang it all, why don’t 
you get married?’’ 

A look of mock distress came into his friend’s face. 

“Spare me, Arthur, I beseech you. Must I repeat for the 
thousand and first time that I have a wholesome horror of 
the institution?” he returned, plaintively. “You 
know ” 

“I know that it’s the only proper way for a man of any 
character to live. On my honor, I don’t think we are of 
any sort of use until we have been under the refining in- 
fluences of a woman of the right kind. There ” 

“ ‘There’s the rub,’ ” interrupted Dick; “women of the 
‘right kind, ’ unfortunately, don’t fall to every fellow’s lot. 
Quite the reverse, in fact. Possibly it’s the fault of our 
social system.” 

“The fault of our social system?” repeated Arthur, in- 
quiringly. “Yes. As a Frenchman would put it , figurez 
vous. A man sees an attractive face in a ball-room, he off- 
handedly seeks an introduction. The fair one proves to be 
chic or chatty ; perhaps she is entirely genuine in her man- 
ner, and converses in a sensible way on sensible topics, 
and he is sufficiently impressed to beg permission to call. 
A second visit fascinates him yet more, particularly if he 
manages to see her alone. She may even go so far as to 
drive with him, if mamma is not discouragingly straight- 
laced. At last an . opportunity presents itself, in Mrs. 
Quatre-cent’s conservatory, very likely, where they are 
cooling off after a waltz. He murmurs a few impassioned 
words into her shell-like ear; she replies with a sigh and a 
long, shy glance — patented, though, if the poor wretch but 
knew it. A moment later he has begged her to ‘make him 
happy. ’ She blushingly sends him to papa, who, of course, 


213 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


is loath to part with his daughter, but finally reluctantly 
consents. Wedding-cake and orange-blossoms follow, and 
then — then comes the awakening, and lucky are the couples 
nowadays who, a year after marriage, find themselves con- 
genial. I firmly believe that is why there are so many ap- 
plicants for divorce. It is nobody’s fault; people have no 
chance to know each other at all until the knot is tied. ” 

“It is a lottery, ” acknowledged Arthur, soberly; “you 
are right. That’s the reason the clubs are so full of bach- 
elors, I suppose. They are afraid.” 

“And I am fond of my liberty.” 

“So am I. Don’t I go and come as I please?” demanded 
Arthur. “You are well aware ” 

“I am aware that your wife is a woman in a million,” 
uttered Dick, warmly, “and if I had found such a one be- 
fore my hair turned white I would have married her — al- 
ways providing she would have had me.” 

The room was a blaze of light now, and men were drop- 
ping in constantly. There was a rustle of newspapers and 
a buzz of conversation from different parts of the room. 
Occasionally, the click of a ball from the billiard-room, or 
a subdued laugh from some one who had button-holed some 
one else in the hall and was telling him a “capital story” 
would be heard. 

A young fellow, with a round face and a downy mus- 
tache, approached and challenged Arthur to a game of pool. 

“Thanks, Bobby, to-night possibly, but it’s too near my 
dinner hour; I must be going soon,” he answered. 

Then, addressing himself once more to Dick, who lay 
back in his chair as motionless as though asleep, he said, 
abruptly : 

“There’s one question, though, I would like to ask you; 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


219 


it’s been on my mind ever since we were abroad together, 
but, well as I know you, I’ve always lacked sufficient cour- 
age to put it to you. It’s this, ” he continued, as Dick made 
no response. “You were in love with a certain young 
woman.” 

“That, I take it, can scarcely be called a question,” re- 
turned Dick, slightly turning his head, which was resting 
against the back of his chair. “Call it a statement, rather. ” 

‘‘Call it what you like— a wind-mill, if it pleases you. It’s 
true, all the same, isn’t it?” he replied, audaciously. ‘‘You 
may talk big, of course, and give vent to all manner of 
high-flown opinions about the drawbacks of matrimony, 
and heartily pity those who are bound to each other for 
life, etc., but I’ll bet, it was just by a ‘squeak,’ that 
you’re sitting in that chair now, struggling each night, 
with the dinner question and each morning with dyspepsia, 
instead of going quietly home and enjoying a decently 
cooked meal, ordered by one who has proper respect for 
both your palate and digestion. Don’t attempt to fool me, 
Dick, you were certainly in love with Miss Cameron.” 

As Arthur finished this harangue, Dick did not rise with 
an ironical smile on his lips and a pointed denial on his 
tongue as the former fully expected him to do. Instead, he 
calmly replied : 

“I do not deny it.” 

“So you admit it? This is unexpected ! Why on earth, 
then, didn’t you marry her?” demanded Arthur. 

“I would have been only too happy to do so— had she 
consented.” 

“What!’' exclaimed Arthur, skeptically, “she refused 
you? You can’t mean that?” 

“But I do mean precisely that.” 


'220 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


Arthur shrugged his shoulders. Did Dick take him for 
an imbecile? Rather disdainfully, he asked: 

“Upon what grounds, may I ask? Was she awaiting a 
declaration from a duke or a prince? Perhaps one was 
courting her, subrosa, at Nice, and she is now advantage- 
ously settled in life. It is quite possible. She disappeared 
so mysteriously, after I got well that time.” 

“No, Miss Cameron did not care to marry.” 

“She said so, I suppose? They all say so at the outset, 
amico mio — just to make the running a little hotter. It 
didn’t discourage you, I hope?” retorted Arthur. “You 
were chicken-hearted.” 

“So I might have been considered, had she not given me 
sufficient reason.” 

“What did you consider sufficient reason?” scoffed Ar- 
thur. 

“I cannot tell you.” 

“I insist. Having gone thus far, you might as well con- 
tinue.” 

“All right, then, ” uttered Dick, slowly. “It was you, 
Arthur.” 

“Me?” 

A wave of crimson dyed Arthui ’s face and neck at this 
direct accusation. He drew himself up and looked hard at 
his friend. Then his features gradually relaxed into a scorn- 
ful smile. 

“What twaddle! You must be quite out of your senses,” 
he observed, quietly. 

Without noticing this remark or the look which accom- 
panied it, Dick consulted his watch, and then, deliberately 
rising to his feet, he said : 

“Since you have been kind enough to invite me to din- 


A HOMILY ON MATRIMONY. 


221 


ner, old man, what do you say if we go over to your house 
now and have a chat? It’s impossible here. I see Jimmie 
Rosewell shying around, and directly he’ll be over to coax 
you to play pool with him. Come, let’s he off.” 

Arthur stood irresolute. The color had passed from his 
face, but his eyes were still somber. Then he hastily took 
up his hat and stick from the table where he had laid them. 

“I’m ready,” he replied, shortly, buttoning up his over- 
coat. 


222 


EXONERATED. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

EXONERATED. 

Upon their return to New York, after an absence of 
nearly two years, Arthur’s first move was to purchase a 
fine residence on Madison avenue which he lost no time in 
turning into a home to suit himself and wife. 

Although a comparatively modern dwelling, both of them 
discovered so many alterations desirable that it was fully 
six months before they were able to take literal possession 
of it. 

Painters, decorators, and plasterers gave place to uphol- 
sterers, who in turn made way for furnishers and art deal- 
ers, but at last, one bright November day, they drove up 
to the door to find all in readiness from attic to cellar. 

Gertrude was as delighted as a child. As far as possible 
Arthur had carefully deferred to her wishes, and the 
famous Zero who was called in professionally to pronounce 
judgment upon the result of the combined efforts declared 
that “madame had marvelous taste. There was no more 
charming interior to be found in New York.” And as Zero 
was an individual whose opinion in that line was worth 
many a dollar to him, this was really a great compliment. 

All was soft and harmonious ; there were no striking 
contrasts and very little color to be found anywhere. No 
room was a blaze of light, either by day or night ; the 
sun’s raj^s filtered through curtains of exquisite texture, 
and the glow of the lamps was subdued by shades, each of 
which was a work of art in itself. 

Still cherishing her fondness for flowers, Gertrude had 


EXONERATED. 


223 


so arranged that on reaching the top of the first landing of 
the spacious staircase, the conservatory might be entered 
through three wide glass doors. 

Her own apartments were upholstered in pink and white, 
and it was here only that she had allowed her feminine na- 
ture to creep out and assume full sway. Here in profusion 
were all the dainty articles so dear to a luxury loving 
woman’s heart, but before which the stronger sex remains 
dumb with perplexity; the low, lace-draped toilet-table, 
with its numberless silver brushes and bottles, the jewel- 
box and mirrors of every size, length, and breadth. 

Arthur had reserved but one nook for his own especial 
use, and that was a very small room which he straightway 
christened his “den.” He appeared to take absolute com- 
fort in the contrast this place afforded to the rest of the 
house. It was simply furnished, with plenty of easy-chairs 
and a huge leather-covered lounge. On the walls hung the 
heads of moose and deer, crossed swords and rifles. The 
floor was waxed and spread with pelts, while in front of 
the fire-place was stretched a splendid tiger skin. 

It was to the “den,” then, that Arthur brought Dick on 
the afternoon in question. The curtains were drawn, and a 
cheerful fire burned on the hearth. His man was putting 
some papers in order as they entered (for Arthur would al- 
low no maid to set foot upon the sill), but he disappeared 
immediately. 

“Now, then,” began Arthur, as his guest sank comforta- 
bly into a seat a little away from the blaze, “you will ex- 
plain the extraordinary statement you made at the club 
just now. I haven’t quite made up my mind whether to be 
amused or insulted by it.” 

He himself had remained standing with folded arms. 


224 


EXONERATED. 


Dick, quite undisturbed by his host’s manner, helped 
himself to a cigar from the box on the mantel. 

“Control yourself, my boy, ” he returned, tranquilly. 
“Don’t work yourself into a passion just yet. Wait until I 
have confided the facts of the case to you, and then we’ll 
see how angry you’ll be.” 

Arthur’s frown faded partially, but his lower lip 
twitched. 

“When I’m through, possibly, you’ll conclude that if 
any one has a grievance in the matter, ’ ’ proceeded Dick, 
coolly snipping the end off his cigar, “it is I.” 

“I fail to comprehend ” 

“You will, though, all indue season,” announced the 
other, imperturbably, striking a match. “Youth is so im- 
petuous, I’m about to honor you with a confidence for a 
change, but before I commence I wish, first, to assure you 
of one thing, and that is, that never have I felt my faith in 
you shaken. You believe me?” 

Arthur nodded, but he was not yet appeased. 

“And, secondly, I ask you to inform me what terminated 
your love affair with Florence Delmar.” 

“Florence Delmar!” ejaculated Arthur. “Why, that was 
ages ago. What possible bearing can it have on this sub- 
ject? You are joking.” 

“Leave that to me. It is far from vulgar curiosity which 
prompts me to rake up this dead and probably almost for- 
gotten matter at this date. And you must see that I am en- 
tirely serious.” 

“I must take your word for it, I suppose, ” murmured 
Arthur, after a pause. 

“You agree, then?” 

There was another pause. 


EXONERATED. 


225 


“You are provokingly bewildering and I can make 
neither head nor tail out of this, ’ ’ said Arthur, at last. ‘ ‘ But, 
as you are evidently in earnest and are generally pretty 
reasonable in your demands, I shall not refuse you. You 
have completely mystified me.’’ 

“Then the sooner you start in the quicker your own curi- 
osity with be gratified, ” uttered Dick. He was smoking 
now, and the fragrance of his weed filled the little room. 

“If I didn’t know that all the soreness (provided your 
heart ever was really wounded) had long since been healed, 
I wouldn’t ask this of you, ’’ he proceeded. “No doubt, 
though looking back to those days, you wonder how you 
ever could have conceived yourself enamored of her.” 

“That’s the solemn fact; I do wonder at my own folly.” 

“Still ” 

“Still, until I discovered her true character, I certainly 
fancied myself desperately in love with Florence.” 

“So it was a case of a shattered idol?” asked Dick, mus- 
ingly. 

“I presume one might so nominate it,” admitted Arthur. 
Then taking a seat opposite Dick, he continued, with some- 
thing like a smile: “You see, it was this way: When Dolly 
introduced me to her I thought her out and away the pret- 
tiest bit of femininity I had run across that winter, and I 
wondered how the duse the frivolous Dolly had ever gotten 
hold of her. She seemed just the opposite of Dolly, too — 
quiet, reserved, and extremely lady-like. Well, I suppose 
I was soft, and Dolly was clever enough to soon find it out. 
She cracked the girl up to the skies, told me what a model 
wife she would make for some lucky fellow, and, in short, 
made use of all the ways and means known to widows to 
insnare me in the toils of the unsophisticated country 


226 


EXONERATED. 


maiden — and she almost succeeded. I grew attached to the 
little creature, and had every reason to suppose she cared 
for me. Finally I made up my mind to propose to her, in 
spite of her intimacy with Dolly, whose acquaintanceship 
is not regarded with anything approaching favor by the 
good set, as you are aware. This was a foolish, inconsider- 
ate notion on my part, of course, but the truth is, I felt a 
sentimental pity for the girl, who confided in me that she 
was forced to live out in the country, with an older sister 
who was totally uncongenial in every way and who ruled 
her with a rod of iron. 

“Dolly harped on this strain to me, too, with a quantity 
of ‘gush’ of her own, until, at last, I was worked up to the 
proper pitch, and one fine night I went around to offer her 
my heart and hand. 

“On asking for the ladies, I was shown into the recep- 
tion-room to await the end of dinner, which, it seems, was 
unusually late that evening. I instructed the butler, who 
had seen me often, not to announce my presence until they 
had left the table, as he told me there were two men there, 
with whose names I was unfamiliar. 

“Now brush the cobwebs off your brain, and you will re- 
call the little Japanese room just back of the reception- 
room, where every one always went for coffee at Dolly’s. 
You remember it? Good! The lamps in this place were 
turned low as they came out from dinner and a subtle 
oriental perfume floated in the air. You are doubtless 
aware that this sort of combination is often conducive to 
unrestrained, even familiar, conversation, particularly un- 
der the proper circumstances, and apparently these were 
pre-eminently so. The fascinating Dolly and her guests 
had dined well— very well, I judged, from what ensued, 


EXONERATED. 


227 


and were inclined to be exceedingly confidential. I repeat, 
I was not acquainted with either of the men, hut both 
Dolly and Florence seemed to be on excellent terms with 
them, for, as they took their seats for coffee, I heard them 
address each other by their first names as glibly as though 
they had baen friends of years standing. 

“Florence and ‘Eddie, ’as she called one of the men — ah, 
never shall I forget my sensations at that moment ! — seated 
themselves in blissful unconsciousness side by side, not 
four feet away from me. You also recollect those bamboo 
curtains? They hid me perfectly, and to my horror, ‘Ed- 
die’ slipped his arm about her waist in the most natural 
fashion imaginable. 

“What blind idiots we youngsters in love are! I fully ex- 
pected to see my paragon rise in haughty indignation and 
smite him across the face for his impertinence. Pas du 
tout ; will you credit this statement? She, the girl who the 
day before had lisped words of love to me, actually leaned 
back until her dainty, blonde head rested on his shoulder. 
Involuntarily I clinched my fists ; my blood was seething 
in my veins, when a remark, coupled with a rippling laugh 
from Dolly, who was fussing with the coffee, held me spell- 
bound. 

“ ‘What if your devoted Arthur could see you now?’ she 
babbled, dropping a lump of sugar into one of the cups. ‘ Do 
you pretend to think he would be pleased?’ 

“ ‘Eddie’ spared Florence the trouble of replying. 

“ ‘What do you suppose we care for the opinion of that 
cad?’ he spoke up, savagely. ‘What possible right would 
he have to interfere?’ 

“ ‘Every right,’ returned Dolly, smoothly. ‘You know 
Florence is going to marry him. It’s on the cards. ’ 


228 


EXOXER A TED. 


“‘On the cards!’ echoed ‘Eddie,’ scornfully. ‘Deny this, 
Florrie. ’ 

“Florrie hid her face in confusion. 

“ ‘Don’t he vexed, Eddie,’ she uttered, soothingly, from 
the depths of his broadcloth; ‘you know I love only you , 
but you are poor and he is rich. Be sensible, dearest, and 
listen while I give you the hundred reasons why I must 
put up with the gilded fool. ’ 

“Can you picture to yourself, old man, with what dig- 
nity and dispatch the ‘gilded fool’ bundled out of that 
house? I did not want to hear even the first of the hundred 
reasons she volunteered to impart to him. I beat an igno- 
minious retreat and left the field free to ‘Eddie.’ 

“The following morning I made an excuse for not going 
to a dinner to which I had promised to take both women. 
This elicited a plaintive reply from Florence, entreating to 
know what had occurred to change my mind, so I wrote 
again and explained so fully that then and there the cur- 
tain fell on that love episode forever. As luck, or ill-luck, 
would have it, the very same day my father unfolded to 
me the plan he and Mr. Clayton had formed to marry Ger- 
trude and myself. I came around to you and confided to 
you what I chose, and you put your own construction on 
what I told you. You know all that occurred since then. 
Yes,” and he drew a deep breath, “I abandoned Florence 
remorselessly, leaving her at liberty to either marry ‘Ed- 
die’ or return to the country and her tyrannical sister — 
just whichever suited her fancy. I never saw her after.” 

“She was false, then,” murmured Dick, nodding with a 
satisfied air. 

“False to the core,” ejaculated Arthur, with a gesture 
of repugnance, “and I discovered it in the nick of time.” 


EXONERATED. 


229 


“You were more fortunate than most men are,’’ uttered 
Dick, surveying, with half-closed eyelids and head thrown 
hack, the rings of smoke, as they curled upward from be- 
tween his lips. 

“For which I have never ceased to he duly thankful, ” 
ejaculated Arthur, fervently. “So there, you have the 
whole story, just as it occurred, and I am more anxious to 
know the connection between it and yours, ’ ’ Arthur con- 
cluded, 

“This sister ” 

“The tyrant in petticoats?’’ interrupted Arthur. “Oh, I 
never saw her — never had the least desire to do so. Dolly 
said she was a terror — a blue-stocking of the most pro- 
nounced type.” 

“Just about the way Dolly would size up a person who 
was blessed with a little more gray matter than she her- 
self possessed.” 

“Quite true. It makes no difference, however, one way 
or the other, ” rejoined Arthur, indifferently ; “since the 
matter is finished and the blooming Florence is laid away 
on the shelf so far as I am concerned. Neither you nor I will 
probably ever have the opportunity of judging how far out 
of the way Dolly’s conception of the legendary Rose was.” 

“Pardon me, but both of us have had the best of oppor- 
tunities to judge her,” returned Dick; to us, at least, she 
is not legendary. n 

“What? You must be crazy. Where would you be likely 
to see her?” demanded Arthur. “Florence assured me re- 
peatedly that she was a person who never left home and 
did not care to make acquaintances. Explain, if you 
please, where you ever saw her.” 

“In your house.” 


230 


EXONERATED . 


Arthur stared at him in blank consternation. 

“See here, Dick, what far-fetched joke is this you are 
trying to perpetrate?” he demanded. “I warn you, I do 
not take it in good part. You’re simply guying me to 
amuse yourself. ” 

“Yet my statement goes,” reiterated Dick, composedly, 
“for, Arthur, Florence Delmar’s sister and your wife’s late 
companion, Elsie Cameron, are one and the same per- 
son.” 

Arthur’s face expressed such absolute stupefaction as 
Dick uttered these words that the latter could scarcely re- 
press a smile, but before he could recover himself Dick 
had poured into his ear the whole story, not omitting the 
part he himself occupied in it or the danger which had 
threatened Arthur at Elsie’s avenging hands. 

“It is bewildering, and it sounds like a romance, does it 
not?” he wound up. “And it is as true as it is pitiful. Of 
course at a glance she would appear most culpable. But, ’ ’ 
quickly, “I know every fact so thoroughly, I know her 
agony — what her feelings toward you must have been — all, 
from beginning to end, and have weighed it most conscien- 
tiously. She was mad, of course, but on that account was 
she not all the more excusable? Ah, ” as Arthur’s brows 
drew together darkly, “I see doubt in your face; but listen; 
I will use your own argument against you. Perhaps I see 
only through the blinded eyes of love. You may claim that 
I could find pardon for her, even had she committed mur- 
der — would pity her, had she yielded to the horrible temp- 
tation which assailed her. Granted. Can you blame me? 
You, by your own avowal, understand the power of love; 
possibly it has rendered me incapable of judging her. She 
is the only woman I have ever met whom I would give 


EXONERATED. 


231 


the snap of my linger to marry, and I am no longer 
young. Put yourself in my position. Would you forgive 
her?” 

He leaned toward Arthur with earnestness in his eyes, a 
tremor in his voice. But the latter sat silent. 

‘‘It is plain,” continued Dick, ‘‘that even this argument 
fails to soften your heart toward her. You may even feel 
a sort of contemptuous pity for me, considering that I am 
so inthralled by her that I am petitioning for your clemency 
against my own better judgment. Perhaps, too, you think 
I am pleading her cause at the cost of my. dignity. So be 
it. But, Arthur, suppose it were — Gertrude? Had my ex- 
perience in this affair been yours, would you have refused 
to listen to her? Do not reply hastily, nor with prejudice. 
Answer me, man to man.” 

For a moment or two there was a silence, broken only 
by the crackling of the wood in the fire-place. Then, all at 
once facing his friend, Arthur extended his hand. 

“Dick, you have pleaded successfully for her,” he said, 
in a low voice. “I cannot show myself less generous than 
you. Looking at it, as you suggest, in a perfectly unbiased 
way, in her estimation I richly deserved annihilation, and 
yet her tender heart prevented her from harming me. 
Like yourself, I shall not presume to sit in judgment upon 
her. Let me be thankful that I am alive. It is Florence to 
whom I really owe the grudge. Little viper ! She was just 
clever enough to shift the blame to my shoulders but not 
enough so to lay the suffering there, too. That poor girl 
must have endured tortures untold for years ! No wonder 
she was reticent and misunderstood. Confound it all, I 
swear she was a martyr, Dick. I cannot advise you, mind, 
but if I were you ” 


232 


EXONERATED. 


Just then there was a light rap on the door, and on being 
bidden, Mrs. Eldridge entered. 

Exquisitely gowned in a dinner costume of blue and 
white, she was lovelier than ever. Shew T as a little fuller in 
figure, and her face was a trifle rounder, but otheiwise she 
was as fresh and girlish in appearance as she was on the 
day Arthur had first seen her. 

‘ ‘ What, gossiping yet? It is seven-thirty, ’ ’ she exclaimed, 
gayly. “You two have more to talk about for such inti- 
mate friends! You are both serious as executioners, too. I 
wonder if it is anything one’s wife should inquire into?” 
laying a pretty, bare arm on Arthur’s shoulder. “Come, 
confess.” 

Her husband imprisoned her hand in his. 

“I was just lecturing Dick,” he answered. “He is get- 
ting along now, and I tell him he ought to be thinking of 
marrying.” 

Gertrude raised her finger warningly. 

“Foolish man!” she retorted, “don’t you know better 
than to give advice on such a grave subject? How many, 
many marriages end disastrously ! Fancy if he should come 
back to you some fine day and say: ‘Arthur, you are re- 
sponsible for my unhappiness !’ Leave him alone ; is he not 
contented with his lot? There are always two sides to 
every question ” 

At that moment the door was thrown open by the but- 
ler. 

“Dinner is served,” he announced, loftily. 

Arthur tucked the little hand he held under his arm. 

“Yes,” he said, in reply to his wife’s unfinished sen- 
tence; “a right and a wrong side.” 


EXONERA TED. 


233 


Later, when the two men were on<se more alone, and Dick 
was preparing to depart, Arthur said to him: 

“I’ve been pondering over this affair of yours all the 
evening, old fellow, and what astonishes me most is the 
fact that you’ve proved so milk and watery — so lacking in 
backbone. You assert that your are seriously in love, and 
yet allow the object of your affections to gilde out of your 
life like a mere acquaintance. The only excuse you offer 
is that the woman you sigh for proved ice to your fire in 
the beginning. Bah ! The best of them dissemble. That is 
a foregone conclusion. Reflect upon ‘faintheart,’ ‘who 
hesitates is lost, ’ and any number of other time-worn 
saws which fit your case. You cannot have waited all 
these years, simply to give me the details of it? It seems 
to me you’ve acted like a two-year-old, Dick.’' 

Dick flushed. 

“Bear in mind, I was refused twice,’’ he returned, coldly. 

“Even so? Suppose you were refused twenty times, why 
should you lose courage? If she cared anything for you — 
and you certainly must be convinced that she did — she 
was bound to say yes sooner or later.’’ 

“Not necessarily. This was no ordinary love affair.” 

“So much the more reason for your overcoming all ob- 
stacles like the hero that you are. I’ll wager she would 
have laid a lot more store by you had you stuck to it. 
Women love grit. Fancy your losing all trace of her and 
moping your heart out in moody silence all this time. 
She’s probably doing the same, wherever she may be.” 

“That’s a different proposition,” rejoined Dick. “I 
haven’t lost track of her.” 

“ You’ve scored one, then, in my estimation, ” said Ar- 


234 


EXONERATED. 


thur, “which is a blessing, for I was pretty well disgusted 
with you. Have a cheroot?” 

Dick refused absently. 

“On the contrary, I know almost every step she has 
taken since she left Nice so hurriedly the morning after 
that horrible night, ” he said, musingly. “She went di- 
rectly to Paris, where Florence had fled after the disagree- 
able scene between them, and there, unknown to her, 
kept watch over her sister like a guardian for months. 
Finally, when the artful minx succeeded in insnaring an 
Austrian baron, with more money than intellect, so hope- 
lessly in her toils that he married her, considering her 
duty toward the girl over, about six weeks ago she re- 
turned to her old home at Wallford, where she now lives 
quietly and alone.” 

“You have seen her’?’ demanded Arthur, with fr^sh in- 
terest. 

“No.” 

Arthur shook his head with the impatient, pitying smile 
which one person bestows on another when he looks upon 
him as a hopeless case. 

“But you will?” he persisted, after a pause. 

Dick made no immediate answer ; he was attentively 
regarding the brim of his hat, which he held in his hand. 
But as Arthur repeated his question, he finally replied : 

“And if I don’t?” 

“Then,” returned Arthur, with decision, “I suppose 
there is nothing left for you except to help swell the ranks 
of the old bachelors, dozens of whom you come in contact 
with every day. Take Tom Vernon, for example; he was 
young once, I presume, but what is he now? Crabbed, 
selfish, dyspeptic— a victim to all the ailments brought on 


EXONERATED. 235 

by high living and late hours — a bore whom everybody 
flees from and every servant dreads. He vibrates between 
the club and his apartments — simply because he has no 
other place to go to. Do you want to grow like him? 
Come, be sensible, old man; you know I wouldn’t say a 
word I do not mean on this subject. Don’t let this matter 
grow cold. Go out to Wallford as soon as you can. Your 
happiness, both present and future, lies there. Promise 
me.” 

‘‘It’s a very important step you’re urging me to take,” 
Dick replied, reflectively. 

‘‘I know how important it is; I’ve taken it myself. Still, 
I repeat, go to Wallford, Dick.” 

“Well,” said the other, with his hand on the door-knob, 
‘‘at least, I will promise to give your advice serious con- 
sideration. Good-night. ’ ’ 


236 


A LIVING a aim: 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A LIVING SAINT. 

“What o’clock is it, pard?” 

“Fo’-twenty-five. Late for the ‘bus,’ ” announced Tim- 
othy Perry, the landlord of Perry’s Inn, to his bartender, 
as the latter stretched himself, after forty winks taken 
beside the stove. 

“It’ll be mo’ than late to-day, I calculate,” yawned the 
bartender. “It’s blowing great guns, and the nags’ll have 
a tough pull of it cornin’ around Blue Rock. Snowin’ 
again,” going to the window, “and it’ll keep it up right 
smart till mornin’, too, or I miss my guess.” 

The “Inn,” a small, story and a half frame-building, 
surrounded by a broken-down fence, painted bright green, 
and displaying a swinging sign over the door, was the only 

tavern between Wallford and the large town of T , a 

distance of more than twenty miles. 

It was the eighteenth of February, and the coldest day 
of the season. Snow had covered the frozen ground for a 
week, and that w T hich was falling now was drifting heavily 
in spots. 

While the two men were conversing a colored boy of about 
fourteen, “chunkily” built and with two rows of shining, 
white teeth, rushed in. It was Tony, the stable-boy. 

“Skatin’s fus’class,” he said, tossing his skates into a 
corner. “Blair’s pond’s froze like dis yer flo’, but law, 
law me! it’s too col’ for dis chil’. Me years mos’ drapped 
clean off.” 

“Pity they hadn’t,” retorted Tim, testily, “only for the 


A LIVING SAINT. 


237 


satisfaction I get in boxing them. Come, cl’ar out o’ this 
now — yo’ and yo’ traps, and be about yo’ business. See 
that Brown’s put the harness on the ol’ mare and Jim. I 
an’t a-hankerin’ after havin’ the new team ruined in such 
weather.” 

The stable-boy disappeared at the word, and within the 
next five minutes most of the employees and habitues of 
the “Inn” had assembled around the genial blaze, chatting 
and drinking, all waiting, with varied interest, the im- 
portant event of the day — the arrival of the coach. 

“This is a sho’ ’nough storm,” uttered the last-comer, a 
lean, lank old farmer, with a sun-dried skin, who never 
failed, rain or shine, to ride over from his home, two miles 
distant, for his daily newspaper. “We’re in for a mighty 
bad evenin’.” 

And so saying, he proceeded to pull off his boots, and 
tilting back in his chair to stretch his striped-stockinged 
feet toward the heat. 

Suddenly a blast of wind blew open the door, and simul- 
taneously with this the metallic sound of a horse’s hoofs 
was heard coming along the road. Every one sprang up, 
filled with curiosity. 

“Some one a-horseback,” muttered the landlord, peer- 
ing out. “Here yo’, Rebecca, git the spare room ready as 
quicJr as a wink. Bob, get down the new whisky — not that 
fire-water. He’s got the cut of a city chap about him, and 
probably knows decent stuff when it’s set before him. 
Good-evening, sir,” genially, as the rider dismounted and 
threw the bridle to a stable-man, who had rushed toward 
him. “It’s a tol’ble chilly ride yo’ve had, and yo’ best 
come to the fire. P’raps yo’d like to res’ yo’self a bit?” 

“Chilly !” uttered the stranger. “It’s enough to freeze 


238 


A LIVING SAINT. 


the marrow in one’s hones ! See that my horse is prop- 
erly taken care of; the poor bruto’s ready to drop.” 

‘‘Cert’nly, sir. Look sharp, Tony. Have a drop of the 
wine of the country? Pure sunshine, as will set your 
blood to circulatin’ through your veins. Oh, you needn’t 
fear it, ” as his guest eyed the bottle rather distrustfully ; 
‘‘it never hurt a fly. Besides,” sotto voce, ‘‘this, mind 
you, is private stock — too good to waste on these, ” wav- 
ing his hand contemptuously toward the crowd huddling 
around the fire. “I keep it for the like o’ you.” 

The subtle flattery succeeded, and the stranger poured 
out a drink and swallowed it, though he could scarcely 
keep from making a grimace, so full of alcohol was it. But 
it served his purpose, and he was thankful to get it, good 
or bad. 

‘‘Has the stage come yet?” he asked, anxiously, as he 
returned the glass to the landlord. 

“No, sir, she’s fo’ty-five minutes late, ” was the reply. 
“She’s due at fo’ ’clock, but with the roads in such a con- 
dition, it’s a squeak if she gets here before five.” 

The stranger heaved a sigh of relief. 

“I want a seat,” he said, shortly. 

The landlord took the register, a huge red volume, off 
the shelf and carefully dusted it with his sleeve, after 
which his guest hastily scrawled his name in it. 

“It’ll be a cheerless ride, Mr. — Forrest,” declared the 
host, adjusting a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles on his 
nose and scrutinizing the inscription. “Hadn’t yo’ better 
let us put yo’ up fo’ the night? You’ll reach Wallford a 
heap mo’ comfortable by daylight, and the fus’ ‘bus’ in 
the mawnin’ reaches there at eleven-fifteen. You’re in rare 
luck if yo’ get there much befo’ ten to-night if it keeps on 


A LIVING SAINT. 239 

like this. It’s a mighty ticklish piece of road along the 
upper mountain — mighty ticklish.” 

‘‘I must go to-day,” uttered his guest. 

Then he relapsed into a silence which lasted until the 
heavy roll of wheels and the cracking of the driver’s whip 
announced that the stage had arrived. All was hustle and 
confusion. 

“No passengers,” shouted Ned Matthews, the driver, as 
he scrambled down from his perch and made his way into 
the house. 

He, too, was regaled with whisky, but not of the same 
choice brand as the first arrival, and yet he found it so 
much to his taste that he did not require urging to induce 
him to take a second and third potion. 

“That there’s a precious good nip,” he remarked, 
smacking his lips and wiping his mouth on the back of his 
glove, as the bottle was restored to its place behind the 
bar, much the worse for wear. “It kind o’ puts the tuck 
into a fellow.” 

Then he picked up his whip again and made his way out 
to the stable. 

“How soon do we start?” asked Mr. Forrest. 

“As soon as they hook up the fresh team,” responded 
his host. “It won’t take long now, it’s so late. There’s 
two other passengers to be picked up down the road a 
piece, at Convent Road, we call it.” 

“Indeed?” returned Mr. Forrest. 

“Yes, and it’s rather out of the direct way. It’ll be 
later’n ever when yo’ reach Wallford. Now we can put yo’ 
up, as I said befo\ fus’-class— good bed ” 

The other interrupted him with a gesture. 


240 


A LIVING SAINT. 


“What time are we booked to reach Wallford?” he in- 
quired. 

“ Booked to get tha’ at eight- fifty, likely to get thar’ a 
heap later, I calculate. Yo’ best take a bottle o’ good rye 
with yo’ in case o’ accident,” persisted Mr. Perry, who had 
ever an eye to business. 

“Thanks, but I shall not require it, ” replied Mr Forrest, 
mentally resolving to freeze rather than imbibe any more 
of the “sunshine” just forced down his still smarting 
throat. 

“You don’t happen to come from these parts?” pursued 
Perry, with the loquacity of an out-of-the-world host. 
“You an’t from Baltimo’, I calculate.” 

“No.” 

“Know Washington? I had a cousin died there.” 

“A little.” 

“Well,” continued the landlord, cheerfully, in no wise 
daunted by the evident disinclination of his guest to con- 
fide his history to him, “thar’s to be some tall goin’s on at 
the Convent next week, ” jerking his pipe over his right 
shoulder to indicate the direction of the building in ques- 
tion. “Thar’s a lot o’ women takes the vail. Heaps o’ town 
folks is cornin’ to be present. P’raps, ” shrewdly, “you’re 
interested in it yourself?” 

But the latter vouchsafed no response, so he continued : 

“Ther’s Miss Rose Delmar, now, she’s goin’ to shut 
herself up, which, ’tween ourselves, is a sho’ 'noush pity, 
say I, for a greater livin’ saint never trod this green earth. 
Ther’s not a poor or afflicted creatur’ for miles around who 
doesn’t sing her praises. I calc’late she can do a sight mo’ 
good in the worl’ than out of it. Lord, Lord, the acts of 
charity that girl’s done would fill a book. Every one in 


A LIVING SAINT. 


241 


these parts loves her and pities her, too, for she’s seen a 
peck o’ trouble for her years.” 

By this time his guest was listening to him with almost 
excited interest. 

‘‘You know certainly that she is going to become a 
nun?” he asked. “I, myself, had heard rumors of it, but 
could get no positive knowledge as to whether it was true 
or not.” 

‘‘Oh, Lordy, yes Then you know her?” 

‘‘I have met her once or twice, and I am acquainted 
with some friends of hers as well. Her acquaintances in 
New York would be likely to hear anything concerning 
her, I suppose,” returned Mr. Forrest. 

“Well,” observed Mr. Perry, carefully refilling his pipe, 
“you might be able to give some positive information 
yourself, then, for you see it’s her and a Wallford priest — 
a man nigh eighty years old, who has been a second father 
to her — who gets on at Convent Road.” 

And before his guest had time to reply to this bit of 
news Perry shouted to the bartender to pour more coal 
upon the fire. One by one the loungers had disappeared, 
and the stove was glowing brighter and cheerier every 
moment, when Tony re-entered, calling out, in a sing- 
song voice: 

“All aboa’d, sah!”andthe sound of the bells on the 
horses was heard in the narrow lane leading from the sta- 
ble-yard. 

Mr. Forrest rose and drew his coat closer about him, 
setting his cap more snugly upon his head, and turned up 
his fur collar. 

“Isay, Perry, ” he said, “I’m going to leave the mare 
with you over night. I intended to ride her all the way, 


242 


A LIVING SAINT. 


but if I attempt it I fear we should both perish. If the 
weather breaks send her on in the morning to Derby’s 
Stables. They are the best in Wallford, aren’t they? If it 
is stormy, await my orders. I will wire you directly.” 

It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun had set in a bank 
of gray, sullen-looking clouds. The stage was at the door, 
and Tony, who stood at the horses’ heads, with his hands 
in his pockets and a lantern swung over his left arm, was 
stamping to keep his feet warm. 

The vehicle itself, a lumbering, old-fashioned affair, was 
lighted with a single candle, the greasy odor of which, 
mingled with that of the fresh haj^ covering the floor, was 
far from agreeable. 

As Dick, after nodding farewell to the scraping landlord, 
took his place, and the latter slammed the door upon him, 
the driver gathered up his lines with a snap of his whip 
and a sharply uttered, “pull up there now !” and they were 
off. 

It was too dark to see out of the frosted windows and 
too cold to do anything but wrap himself up in the only 
rug the coach afforded, so he stretched out and made him- 
self as comfortable as was possible under the existing cir- 
cumstances. 

Cheerless as his surroundings were, he was not sorry to 
be alone with his thoughts once more and beyond the 
reach of the endless tongue of the garrulous Perry. 

Before long, overcome by drowsiness, induced by the 
warmth of his blanket and the droning accompaniment of 
the cumbersome wheels as they creaked through the pack- 
ing snow, he fell into a sort of numb, uneasy slumber. 

Awakening with a start, he caught himself just in time 


A LIVING SAINT. 243 

to prevent his being nearly thrown from his seat by a vio- 
lent lurch. 

Where was he? A bright light was shining full in his 
face, and lifting himself, he saw that they had stopped at 
a low building, before which burned a lamp inclosed in 
colored glass. This cast a bluish reflection on the steps, 
wdiere several persons were gathered. 

“This must be Convent Road,” he uttered, mentally, 
straightening himself up and pulling his cap lower about 
his ears. 

“Come, come, Ned,” he heard a voice close by exclaim 
to the driver, “you’ve already too many o’ them there 
warm jackets inside your skin for one cold night. Better 
play light, with such a ticklish bit o’ road before you. 
Take as many toddies the other end as ever you like, that’s 
all right, but hang me, if I think it’s prudent or honest, 
either, of you to burn your throat and brains out at this 
one. When it dies on you, you’ll be worse off than ever, 
and you’ll wish you’d taken the advice of an old duffer.” 

The only answer was a gruff, contemptuous snort as the 
driver handed down the glass he had just emptied of raw 
whisky, and the remonstrator, saying no more, entered 
the house. 

As he disappeared the door opened, and two more fig- 
ures emerged, those of a man and a woman. They quickly 
stepped into the awaiting stage, and a servant handed 
them an armful of wraps. Then without longer delay, the 
horses started again. Mr. Forrest caught his breath sharply 
as the skirts of the woman brushed against his knees, and 
he retreated yet farther into his corner. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough, 
Father?” uttered a silvery voice, as the aged man, a 


244 


A LIVING SAINT. 


priest, evidently, to judge from his dress, sank into his 
place and drew a bear robe over him. “It would be dread- 
ful if you were to take more cold this wretched night. If 
we only need not have come!’’ 

“I am quite comfortable, my daughter,’’ was the mut- 
tered answer from the depths of the fur. “There, there 
keep the rest, you’ve nearly smothered me and left noth- 
ing for yourself.’’ 

But she busied herself over him in the tender, affec- 
tionate fashion so natural with women toward those they 
care for, until he once more protested. Then bestowing a 
final look to see that his shoulders were well protected 
from the draughts, she finally dropped into a seat. 

Some women have the faculty of unconsciously assum- 
ing graceful positions under all circumstances, and so the 
silent passenger at the other end of the omnibus told him- 
self, as Miss Delmar took her place opposite the priest, 
where she could watch him carefully. And so weak and 
infirm did he appear, that this solicitude was, perhaps, not 
unnecessary on such a dismal journey. 

She sat where the rays of the candle fell directly upon 
her, and Dick could see that she was pale and very 
slender. Around her shoulders was thrown a mantle of 
sealskin, which brought out yet more distinctly the clear 
skin and deep brilliancy of the darkly shaded eyes. The 
sweet, serious curve of the mouth, which had first at- 
tracted him to her, was more pronounced than ever, and 
with a slight contraction at his heart, Dick could not but 
acknowledge that the past three years had only added to 
her loveliness. 

“She has the face of an angel,” he murmured, as he 
feasted his eyes hungrily upon her. 


A LIVING SAINT. 


245 


Then he recollected Tim Perry’s words. What, all this 
beauty to be shut up from the world, to be hidden away 
where no admiring glance could ever fall upon it? To be 
entombed alive, where it might bloom, possibly, for a short 
while, and then slowly fade away, with no one to care, no 
one to feel one single pang of regret? The reflection was 
too outrageous— too appalling. It should never be if he 
could prevent it. What a lucky chance it was that led 
him here at this momentous hour! A week hence he 
might have been too late. He felt himself growing rest- 
less with impatience. Would this wretched ride never end? 
They were going at a snail’s pace; he was sure the horses 
were barely crawling along. 

He vaguely wondered if their situation might not be- 
come critical should this weather continue. Each blast of 
wind, as it swept by, seemed to seize them more violently 
— to shriek more fiercely as it rattled the glass in the win- 
dows and shook the whole body of the coach. 

At the end of another half-hour it was several degrees 
colder and the candle was a mere stub. The old priest, 
wrapped in his rug, was sleeping with his head dropped 
back against Miss Delmar’s muff, which she had placed 
behind his neck. 

But she was awake and as concerned as Dick himself, 
though she kept perfectly quiet. 

On entering she had cast one inquiring glance in his di- 
rection, but failing to recognize him, had paid him no fur- 
ther attention. 

The old man dozed uninterruptedly for an hour, and then 
he raised his head. 

“Where are we, Rose?” he inquired, “This ride seems 
interminable.” 


246 


A LIVING SAINT. 


She had not the faintest idea where they were, but not 
wishing to discourage him, answered: 

“I’m not quite sure, Father, but I think we are about 
passing White Cliff. Are you cold?” 

“And if I were?” he returned. “I suppose,” as he saw 
her. glance down at the robe spread over her own knees, 
“you would give me your covering?” 

“Willingly, father.” 

“Tut! tut! my child,” he muttered, almost fretfully, 
“you must not allow your generosity to run away with 
your prudence. Leave me alone; I am well enough.” 

And presently his eyelids drooped again. 

Rose’s anxiety was increasing constantly ; she concealed 
it with difficulty. But if Dick was under the impression 
she might at any moment address him, if only for the 
sake of having some one with whom to discuss the situa- 
tion, he was mistaken, for she restrained herself and 
bravely kept her nervousness to herself. Most of the time 
she sat with her cheek pressed against the pane and her 
eyes straining out into the gloom. 

She had conjectured correctly as to their location, how- 
ever, for they soon passed under the shelter of the friendly 
cliff, which protected them, in a measure, from the force 
of the storm. They were ascending the mountain and 
found themselves comparatively comfortable for a mile or 
two. They had now traveled two-thirds of the distance, as 
Wallford lay on the other side at the foot of White Cliff. 
With her eyes striving to pierce the darkness, her thoughts 
traveled apace to Wallford — she could picture her home, 
her own cozy bedroom, with its pleasant wood fire, its 
dainty tea things, and Nora to bring her a loose gown and 
a tempting little supper, and last, but not least, Prince, 


A LIVING SAINT. 


247 


the big collie, always thrusting his cold nose into her hand 
whenever there was anything on the tray particularly to 
his taste — all passed through her mind. How many, 
many miles away, it all seemed ! She wondered whether 
she would survive to see it again. And shivering, she 
drew her aching fingers inside the folds of her cloak. The 
very blood seemed to be chilled in her veins. 

Slowly the patient horses plowed, knee-deep, into the 
heavy path before them, dragging their cumbersome load, 
which grew heavier with each turn of the wheels, and 
responding with all their might to the undeserved blows 
rained upon them. 

At last they reached the top of the mountain and began 
to descend the other side. Once more they found them- 
selves exposed to the full force of the wind, with the snow 
blowing about in such quantities that several times they 
were obliged to stop short in order to breathe. On they 
struggled, blinded, staggering, panting ; no longer able to 
feel the pressure on the reins and forced to trust to their 
own instinct to find their way. 

The cold was so intense that Dick was expecting any in- 
stant to hear a cry of despair from the driver. 

Suddenly, from the priest’s corner, was heard a moan. 

Rose sprang toward him. 

“Father!” she exclaimed. 

But he merely mumbled and turned his head feebly 
from side to side. 

“Oh, he is unconscious!” she cried, in alarm; “he is 
freezing ! In her distress she was about to tear off her 
cloak, when Dick laid his hand on her arm and spoke. 

“He may have this rug,” he uttered. “On no account 
must you give up any of your wraps. It might mean 


248 A LIVING SAINT. 

death. I will put it around him, ” and he suited the action 

to the word. 

“You are most kind,” she returned, gratefully, “hut 
can you spare it? You see he has been ill and is still 
weak.” 

He was bending over the priest and made no reply. As 
he finished she half hesitatingly held out her hand. 

“Thank you very much. If you should ” she began, 

and then her hand dropped to her side. “Mr. Forrest!” 
she exclaimed, in amazement. “Can it he ” 

“Yes, it is I,” he answered, simply. “I preferred to 
keep my presence here a secret from you, if possible, for 
reasons of my own, but,” with a faint smile, “circum- 
stances have forced an issue.” 

She did not speak, but continued to gaze at him in a 
helpless, bewildered way. Then she slowly dropped into 
her seat. 

“It is a surprise, of course,” he went on, hurriedly, “and 
possibly a not too agreeable one, Miss Delmar. I learned of 
your intention to enter the convent purely by accident, 
but I had already started for Wallford.” 

Still she did not speak, and her face grew paler than 
ever. 

“Chance,” he continued, “in one of its strange, erratic 
fashions, threw us together before I intended. You have 
no doubt guessed my errand— it was to ask you for the 
third time to become my wife. I have imparted the reason 
of my errand sooner then I meant to, but perhaps it is too 
late, after all, as I cannot conceal from you that this is a 
perilous journey, and one of us may never reach its end.” 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

Impulsively she held out both her hands to him. 


A LIVING SAINT. 


249 


“Oh, you are suffering, ” she said, “and on our account. ’’ 

“No, no,’’ he returned, hastily, “I am only too thankful 
to be of use to you, even in this way. Hark, ’’as the priest 
moved uneasily, “he is trying to say something.’’ 

“Sir,” uttered the old man, to Dick, as he approached, 
“I don’t wish you to deprive yourself for me in this man- 
ner, and I beg of you to look after her. She must not— 
must not ’’ 

The rest of the sentence was inarticulate as the heavy 
lids dropped again. 

“He is so warmly covered that he will soon he quite 
comfortable; in fact, he’s sleeping now, ” said Dick, as she 
lingered to tuck the bearskin closer about the old man’s 
knees. “I only fear for you. You heard — he commended 
.you to my charge, Rose. He has forgotten the convent.” 

“Do you really think he is asleep?” she asked, with con- 
cern, her eyes still fixed upon the priest’s haggard face. 
“He scarcely seems to breathe.” 

“Listen to me,” continued Dick. “You must relinquish 
this morbid idea of entering the convent at once. Thank 
God it is not yet too late for you to change your mind. 
You sought to end your days alone, forgotten, buried 
alive. I tell you, it must not be — the bare idea is too re- 
volting, too uncanny — if I can prevent it. Just so long as 
your sister claimed your time and devotion I determined 
not to cross your path, but I have learned that she has 
ceased to need you, so I have come back to offer you the 
same love you refused four years ago. I will not refer to 
your sister again, except to say that I could not interfere 
with the burden you had seen fit to assume ; I can and do, 
though, with this barbarous resolution which would blast 
two lives. You are not a child, Rose, neither am I a boy; 


250 


A LIVING SAINT. 


we ought both to understand ourselves. I believe you still 
care for me; you are not the sort of woman to change, 
and you cannot doubt me. If we live to end this journey, 
let us begin all over again ; let the past be a dead letter to 
us. For the last time, Rose, will you be my wife?” 

‘‘How can I give you the answer you hope for now?” 
she pleaded, in a tone of anguish. ‘‘I have no right even 
to listen to you. “A month ago, perhaps ” 

He took both her hands in his. 

‘‘My girl, answer me with your heart, not your lips. 
Can you truthfully say your feelings are the same as they 
were a month ago? If so, I will say no more.” 

Her only reply w T as a burst of nervous, quivering sobs. 
Gently he gathered her, unresisting, to his breast, and 
neither spoke for some minutes. Suddenly she drew away 
from him with a startled expression. 

“See,” she said, pointing, “the light is going out. 
“Why,” joyously, “we are stopping. Can we have ar- 
rived?” 

He was silent. The wind moaned and shrieked as though 
a thousand demons were mocking them. 

She crept close to his side again in the darkness. 

“Dick,” she whispered, with difficuhy. “Is this the 
end? You may tell me, for I am no coward.” 

Still no response. 

She shuddered slightly, and the blood throbbed in her 
temples. His silence answered her better than words, yet 
failed to satisfy her. 

She was, as she protested, not afraid to die, but she was 
young and healthy. Life, especially at this moment, 
seemed unutterably sweet to her. 

“You dare not confide the truth to me,” she went on, 


A LIVING SAINT. 251 

in a tremulous voice, like that of a little child. “It is 
wrong of you ; ah, you do not understand me yet, I see. 
Answer me, are we lost?” 

“And if we are?” he replied, with set teeth. 

She took his hands and laid her cheek against them in 
a caressing fashion. 

“At least we are together,” she murmured, softly, “and 
— w T ait, I can protect you a little, in any event.” 

And with a quick movement, she shook down her splen- 
did hair until it fell nearly to her knees. 

“Hold me quite close now, as I am very cold,” she con- 
tinued, still plaintively; “cold and warm by turns. They 
say, do they not, that people become sleepy when they are 
freezing to death? And I am so drowsy ! I can no longer 
see you, either, though my eyes are wide open, but, dear- 
est, I want to make you happy even now, in this hour of 
danger, if I can by telling you that had all gone well with 
us this time, I would not have said no to you again, for I 
confess that my intention to enter the convent grew out 
of my utter weariness of life. As the days passed by, one 
so like the other — dreary, monotonous— haunted by the 
bitter remembrance that with my own hand I had driven 
from me all that could brighten my existence, I became 
more and more listless and indifferent, so that when 
Father Moore proposed a life of retirement from the world — 
peace, I did not discourage him. Now all is changed, you 
have returned to me, and I realize how welcome your pres- 
ence is — it is like the oasis in the desert. All recollection of 
my loneliness vanishes at sight of you, dear. After all,” 

languidly, “what is life without affection? I love ” 

******** 

On the brow of a hill, on the outskirts of Wallford, a 


252 


A LIVING SAINT. 


little knot of men were gathered. Day was just dawning, 
and the rising sun cast a roseate hue over the snow cov- 
ered land, lending to it an almost painful brilliancy. As 
far as the eye could reach stretched the dazzling white, 
dotted here and there with the dark- green of a clump of 
pines or tall cedar trees, whose branches drooped grace- 
fully under their spotless burden. 

The men, well muffled up — for the morning air was un- 
usually sharp — were talking and gazing intently along the 
unbroken road which wound up the mountain side. 

They were David Derby, his son, and four of his stable- 
men. 

“T’an’t no use, boss; no hosses couldn’t never live out 
t’rough a night like dat yer,” observed Uncle Sam, one of 
the older stable-men, a white-haired negro, shaking his 
head. 

“O’ co’se not,” chimed in a second. 

“Mo’ ’n likely day’s under a drif’, clean d’odder side o’ 
W’ite Cliff,” remarked another sage. 

David, who was shading his eyes with his mittened 
hand, vouchsafed no reply to this universal opinion. 

“Might as well give up expectin’ ’em, pa,” suggested 
his son, who was thoroughly chilled and hungry. “Maybe 
they didn’t start, after all.” 

“Sho’,” agreed the old stable-man, who also felt a long- 
ing for hoe cake steal over him. “Mebbe they didn’t.” 

“Shut up, the pack o’ you,” returned Derby, gruffly. 
“Want to teach me my business, do you? Wei], I can just 
worry along without any o’ yo’ advice, I kin tell you. 
That ’bus’ll come, or we don’t go in all day. Understand?” 

They did, and a murmur of consternation arose. 

“But it’s so many hours late, pa,” persisted young 


A LIVING SAINT. 


253 


Derby, sulkily, “and we’ll all take down sick if we keep 
up this darn fool watchin’ a great while longer. What’s 
the use?” 

“Hark!” commanded the father, sternly. 

They all obeyed, and presently a faint grating sound 
was heard. 

“There she comes round the bend!” cried Derby, ex- 
citedly. “Quick, boys! jump in !” 

“Sho’s yo’ bo’n,” rejoined Uncle Sam, with equal agita- 
tion. 

Without the loss of a second, they all sprang into a light 
wagon waiting near by and seizing the whip, old Derby 
drove as rapidly as possible up the mountain side. 

More and more distinct grew the sound, until the hoof- 
beats could be distinguished. Then suddenly an abrupt 
curve brought the stage almost upon them. But what a 
spectacle it presented to their sight ! 

The four horses, half frenzied and nearly exhausted, 
were galloping down the steep road with the lumbering 
vehicle only partially attached to them at their heels. The 
hanging reins and the numerous cuts and bruises on their 
sides bore evidence to the fact that for many a mile there 
had been no guiding hand held over them. The box was 
unoccupied, the whip gone. 

As the old man at Convent Road had prophesied, Ned 
Matthews had indulged in the “rosy cup” once too often, 
and the same afternoon his frozen corpse was found at the 
top of the cliff. 

One of the stable-men quickly sprang to the heads of 
the leaders and dextrously brought them to a stand-still, 
while another led up two fresh teams, which had been 
hitched to the back of the wagon. Then, without further 


254 


A LIVING SAINT. 


delay, the panting and now thoroughly cowed brutes were 
taken to food and shelter. 

The stage was drawn to the side of the road, while the 
men were reharnessing. 

“Did any one ever see the like?” uttered young Derby, 
who had been rendered speechless for fully five minutes. 
“To think o’ those there horses getting home straight, af- 
ter all. Poor Matt’s done for, though. There’s his cap on 
the seat. Who’s going to look inside? ’Clare to goodness 
I just an’t got the nerve. ” 

As if in answer to the question, his father stepped up 
and threw the door wide open. A mingled odor of candle 
grease and fur floated out on the crisp morning air. 

“It’s all dark!” exclaimed young Derby, shivering. 
“Most likely it’s full o’ dead people, too. Come away, pa, 
it’s the worst kind o’ luck to see a corpse before break- 
fast.” 

In spite of this injunction, however, one by one the men 
cautiously approached, young Derby shrinkingly bringing 
up the rear, with a very pallid countenance. 

“Lordy me!” he exclaimed, starting back with chatter- 
ing teeth, as the old man, with a snort of disgust at the 
cowardice of his offspring, swung himself in. 

The snow had so blocked the windows that he could see 
nothing at first, but his eyes becoming accustomed to the 
semi-darkness, he was able presently to distinguish the 
three passengers. The priest was almost entirely hidden 
by rugs, so that only his forehead and one arm were ex- 
posed to view. The other two were side by side, Rose’s 
head reclining upon Dick’s shoulder. Her hat had fallen 
to the floor, and her hair enwrapped them both like a 
cloak. 


A LIVING SAINT. 


255 


It was plain that everything possible had been given to 
keep warmth in the old man’s body by these two, to whom 
life meant so much more than it could have to one of his 
years and calling. 

Even hardy old David Derby felt a tear trickle down his 
weather-beaten cheek, as he gazed upon the touching scene. 

None of them moved or spoke as he intruded upon them, 
so he ventured to touch each lightly in turn. There was 
no response. 

Returning to the door, he beckoned to old Uncle Sam 
with so solemn an air that his son retreated a dozen 
feet. 

“There are only three of ’em,” he said, “and I don’t 
know whether they’re alive or not. Take the mare out of 
the shafts and ride straight to Doctor Parkin’s house. 

• Never mind the wagon ; we’ll tend to that. Tell the doctor 
to get to the hotel at once; we’ll reach there nearly as 
soon. I’ll drive the ’bus home myself. Plague take that 
cussed, white-livered boy o’ mine! I b’lieve he's goin’ to 
faint! If he does, I’ll leave iiim in the open wagon, I 
swear.” 

Less than half an hour later the stage drew up to the 
side entrance of the Park Hotel. Doctor Parkin was al- 
ready waiting as David jumped down from the box. 

“Doctor,” said he, “here is the ’bus, just as we found 
it. No one an’t been inside, excepting myself, and I resign 
it to you in the fervent hope that the pore souls has still 
some show in this world. You will recognize two of them; 
the third is a stranger here. Take a peep, sir, and see 
whether I was wise in not allowing none o’ them niggers 
to poke their noses in?” 


256 


A LIVING SAINT. 


Doctor Parkin obeyed, and as he emerged again, he re • 
plied, commendingly, with a strange expression on his 
lips: 

“You were, David; you certainly were.” 


bAVUD. 


257 


CHAPTER XXIX 

SAVED. 

Nora was sitting disconsolately beside the kitchen fire, 
as she had been since early evening, with a basket of mend- 
ing in her lap, and Peter, the big tabby cat curled into a 
soft, fluffy ball on the square of the carpet near her chair. 
Not far off, on the cleanly swept hearth the old collie was 
dozing also, for long as the cat and dog had shared the same 
bones and common as their interests necessarily were, they 
had not yet become sufficiently intimate to share the same 
mat. 

Nora’s eyelids were red from loss of sleep and anxiety, 
for she had not been to bed all night, and it was now broad 
daylight. 

Where was her mistress? She had started to go to the 
convent with Father Moore early in the morning, intend- 
ing to return in the afternoon and had not reached home 
yet. There was no place where she could spend the night 
there, so, as she had no alternative, she must have taken 
the stage home, and in such a terrible storm what might 
not have happened to her? Nora was too excited to remain 
seated five consecutive minutes. 

It is true that to the girl’s simple mind the priest’s pres- 
ence boded all manner of blessings, but could even Father 
Moore protect Miss Rose from the blizzard of last night? 
She could not help doubting it. She sighed and went to 
the window for the twentieth time since midnight. 

The dog rose, too, and proeeeded to shake himself so vio- 


258 SAVED. 

lently that Peter opened his round, sleepy eyes reproach- 
fully. 

Suddenly, without warning, he lifted his head and gave 
a short, explosive bark, which so disturbed Peter that he 
loaped upon the table, with bristling fur and thickened 
tail. 

“What is it, Bruce?” said Nora, patting him. “Do you 
hear anybody? Is Miss Kose coming? Yes, I hear footsteps 
myself. Let’s go and see.” 

She tossed aside her sewing and rushed to the door, with 
the dog capering beside her. To her keen disappointment, 
only a small, tow-headed lad stood on the mat outside. 

“What is it?” demanded Nora, without ceremony. 

“Njow — there’s a lady down to the hotel, and the doctor 
says will you please come down right away, ” he announced, 
deliberately. Then added, reflectively : “You’re Miss Del- 
mar’s maid, an’t you?” 

“Is Miss Delmar ill?” cried Nora, apprehensively. 

The boy hesitated. 

“I reckon so,” he answered, at last. 

“Is she in any danger?” exclaimed the frightened girl, 
striving to read the dreaded answer in his expressionless 
face. 

But he was shuffling the snow from side to side with his 
shoe, and his eyes were bent upon his task. When he final- 
ly lifted them, their look was one of such perfect uncon- 
cern that the girl was exasperated. 

“Have you lost your tongue,” she exclaimed, “as well 
as your wits?” 

“I disremember, ” he returned, “but it seems to me I 
heard one of ’era’s dead. ” 


SA VED. 269 

“Dead!” screamed Nora. “One of who is dead? Answer 
me!” 

“Well,” replied the messenger, meditatively, “I dunno 
’xactly. I didn’t wait; I hurried on.” 

“Drat yer! did a body ever meet with your match?” 
cried Nora, wildly; “with no heart at all, at all! Sure, if 
ye got yer just deserts it’s a royal good trouncing ye’d git! 
And it’s mesilf would administer it with pleasure. Och ! be 
off wid ye!” 

And nabbing the astonished urchin by the arm, she 
shook him savagely and then slammed the door upon him. 

Giving vent to his amazement in a prolonged whistle, 
the boy stood a moment, staring, as though wondering 
what had happened to him ; then he leisurely searched 
about for his cap, which had fallen over the railing. Pick- 
ing it up, he brushed the snow carefully off it and replaced 
it upon his head, muttering: 

“If she an’t clean daft!” 

Then he proceeded toward the gate, stopping every few 
moments to look back and whistle. 

When Nora arrived at the hotel she was flushed and 
breathless. She had run all the way, merely stopping long 
enough in the lower hall to snatch her bonnet and shawl 
from the peg, adjusting them as she went. The collie had 
followed her, but she was unconscious of the fact until she 
was half way there. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy his 
outing, romping and rolling about in the snow like a young 
puppy. 

Nora had occasionally been to the hotel— the only one in 
Wallford— but only on one mission for her mistress. She 
never felt at ease there at any time— everything seemed so 
important and bustling to her— so she always finished her 


260 


SAVED. 


errand with as great dispatch as possible, and did not 
breathe freely until she was once more on the road home. 
To-day, as she entered the office, with the dog pattering 
beside her, it seemed more imposing than ever, and her 
timidity increased fourfold. 

Mr. Booker, the dignified clerk, with his bushy black 
mustache, was busily writing, and paid not the slightest 
attention to her as she advanced, quaking, toward the desk. 
But taking her courage in both hands, she managed to gasp 
out: 

“If you please, sir — I’m Nora.” 

Then he glanced up, almost fiercely, she thought. 

“And who may Nora be?’’ he demanded. 

“It’s Miss Rose Delmar’s maid I am, sir,” she replied, 
and then added, more confidently: “The doctor sent for 
me.” 

“Oh,” was the response, as he stretched out one hand 
languidly to the bell and struck it. “So you’re the person, 
are you?” 

He did not smile; there was no encouragement in his 
tone, so Nora did not venture to address another syllable 
to him. She was trembling violently With nervousness and 
apprehension, but her tongue seemed paralyzed ; she could 
only await the development of events. 

A ray of hope entered her mind, however, as she reflected 
that there was a bare chance that the doctor might not be 
quite so overawing. At any rate, she must soon find out 
the worst. 

A bell-boy slouched up. 

“Go up to sixty-two and tell Doctor Parkin that the 
woman he sent for has arrived. Be quick now,” ordered 


8 A VED. 


261 


Mr. Booker, imperiously. Then he resumed his writing, 
completely ignoring poor Nora’s presence. 

She followed the boy with wistful eyes, longing to rush 
after him and end this torturing suspense, but she would 
as soon have thought of flying. 

Scratch, scratch went Mr. Booker’s pen, as the moments 
passed on leaden wings. Nora felt as though she must 
scream with the pain that was wringing her heart. Would 
that boy never return? 

At this juncture down the stairs came a dapper little 
man, buttoned snugly into a heavy coat and wearing a 
shiny, high hat and new gloves. 

A lightning change passed under the clerk’s silky mus- 
tache. His teeth showed in a condescending smile as he 
rose and leaned as far over his desk as possible. 

“Ah, doctor, I just sent up to you. This person is ” 

“Miss Delmar’s servant, I presume?” finished the doc- 
tor, quickly, turning to Nora. “You were not alarmed at 
my summons, I trust?” 

No longer able to control herself, the girl, at the sound 
of the mild voice, broke down completely. 

“Oh, doctor,” she wailed, “the messenger said — said — 
some one was dead. He did not know who, but my heart’s 
broke with worry for fear it is my dear mistress who’s suc- 
cumbed to the fearful night. She’s that delicate and hasn’t 
been herself these long months ” 

Doctor Parkin laid one hand kindly on her shoulder. 

“Calm yourself, my good woman,” he said, soothingly. 
“One person did succumb to the cold and exposure, but it 
was Father Moore ; he had been dead several hours when 
the stage arrived.” 


262 


8 A VED. 


“Father Moore!” repeated Nora, with awe, but she 
heaved a deep sigh of relief. 

“Two other persons, only, were found inside,” proceeded 
the doctor; “Miss Delmar and a gentleman, a Mr. Forrest, 
whose life he owes directly to her, I am sure.” 

“But my mistress?” persisted Nora, breathlessly. 

“Both Miss Delmar and Mr. Forrest have so far recov- 
ered that I venture to predict both will be able to be down 
stairs in three days. And now come, if you would like to 
go up to her? She has already asked for you. ’ ’ 

The faithful maid, choking with her emotion, answered 
him with her eyes. 


(THE END.) 






THE RHINE, THE 
ALPS AND THE 
BATTLEFIELD LINE.” 

The Famousf^/ limited 

FAST FLYING VIRGINIAN 


Has No Equal Between 

CINCINNATI and NEW FORK, 

Via Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia* 
Vestibuled, Steam Heated, and Electric Lighted Throughout. 
THROUGH DINING CAR AND COMPLETE PULLMAN SERVICE. 
THROUGH SLEEPERS TO AND FROM 


ST. LOUIS, CHICAGO AND LOUISVILLE, 

The most interesting historio associations and the most striking and 
beautiful scenery in the United States are linked together by the C & O 
System, which traverses Virginia, the first foothold of English settlers in 
America, where the Revolutionary War was begun and ended, and where 
the great battles of the Civil War were fought; crosses the Blue Ridge and 
Alleghany Mountains and the famous Shenandoah Valley, reaches the cele- 
brated Springs region of the Virginias, and lies through the canons of New 
River, where the scenery is grand beyond description. It follows the banks 
of the Kanawha and Ohio Rivers, and penetrates the famous Blue Grass 
region of Kentucky, noted for producing the greatest race-horses of the 
tv orld. 

For maps, folders, descriptive pamphlets, eto., apply to Pennsylvania 
Railroad ticket offices in New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, the »rin> 
cipal ticket offices throughout the country, or any of the following c. A O* 
agencies : ' 

NEW YORK— 362 and 1323 Broadway: 

WASHINGTON— 513 and 1421 Penna. avenue* 

CINCINNATI— Corner Fifth and Walnut streets* 

LOUISVILLE— 253 Fourth avenue; 

ST. LOUIS— Corner Broadway and Chestnut street* 

CHICAGO— 234 Clark street. 

a B. RYAN, Assistant General Passenger Agent, Cincinnati. O 

K. w. i’asaeujjjg Agent, Washington, D. O, 


THE ROYAL. BLUE LINE 


between New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Wash- 
agton, the South, and South-west is conceded to be 
\he BEST CONSTRUCTED and MOST FINELY! 
EQUIPPED RAILROAD in the country. 

THE OLD RELIABLE ROUTE 

io all points in Interior Pennsylvania— Reading, 
Harrisburg, Gettysburg, Pottsville, Shamokin, and 
Villiamsport. 

THE ROYAL ROUTE TO THE SEA. 

The Double Track Line between Philadelphia 
and Atlantic City. 


I, a. SWEIGkARD, General Superintendent 


0. Gh HANCOCK, General Passenger Agent 


TAKS 



FOR ALL PRINCIPAL POINTS IB 

MISSOURI, 

KANSAS, 

INDIAN TERRITORY 

TEXAS, 

MEXICO, 

CALIFORNIA. 

FREE RECLINING CHAIR CARS ON ALL TRAINS. 


Through Wagner F*alace JBufFet Sleeping Cars 
from the GREAT LAKES to the 
GULF OF MEXICO, 


For further information call on or address your nearest 
Ticket Agent, or 

JAMES BARKER, G. P. & T. A., 

St» Louis, 


There Is little need of emphasizing the FACT that the 


Maine Central 
Railroad 

Has been the developer of Bar Harbor, and has made this incomparable summer 

home the 

Crown of the Atlantic Coast, 

AND MOREOVER s — 

The Natural Wonders of the White Mountains, 

The Wierd Grandeur of the Dixville Notch, 

The Quaint Ways and Scenes of Quebec, 

The Multifarious Attractions of Montreal, 

The Elegance of Poland Springs, 

The Inexhaustable Fishing if Rangeley, 

The Unique Scenery of Moosehead, 

The Remarkable Healthfulness of St. Andrews, 

Are all within contact of the ever-lengthening: arms 
of the Maine Central Railroad. 

The Renowned Vacation Line* 

Or, to those who enjoy Ocean Sailing, the statement is made that the pioneer 
line along the coast of Maine, making numerous landings at picturesque points, 
almost encircling the Island of Mt. Desert is the 

Portland, Mt. Desert and 
Machias Steamboat Co. 

The New, Large and Luxurious Steamer, “ Frank Jones,” makes, during the 
summer season, three round trips per week between Rockland, Bar Harbor and 
MachiasporL 

Illustrated outlines, details of transportation, and other information upon ap> 
plication to 

F. E» BOOTHBY, PAYSON TUCKER, 

G. P. and T. Agt. Vice-Pres’t and Gen. Mgi. 

Portland, Me. 



Ft. Wayne, Cincinnati, and Louisville Railroad. 

“Natural Gas Route.” Ttie Poplar snort Line 

VSETWEEN 

•Peoria, Bloomington, Chicago, St. Louis, Springfield, Lafayette^ 
Frankfort, Muncie, Portland, Lima, Findlay, Fostoria, 
Fremont, Sandusky, Indianapolis, Kokomo, Peru, 
Rochester, Plymouth, LaPorte, Michigan 
City, Ft. Wayne, Hartford, Bluifton, 
Counorsville, and Cincinnati, making 


Direct Connections for all Points East, West, North and South, 


THE ONLY LINE TRAVERSING 

THE GREAT NATURAL GAS AND OIL FIELDS 

•l)f Ohio and Indiana, giving the patrons o f this Popular Route an 
opportunity to witness the grand sight from the train as they pass 
through. Great fields covered with tanks, in which are stored millions 
of gallons oi oil, Natural Gas wells shooting their flames high in the 
air, and the most beautiful cities, fairly alive with glass and all kinds 
of factories. 

We furnish our patrons with Elegant Reclining Chair Car Seats 
Free, on day trains, and L. E. & W. Palace Sleeping and Parlor Cars, 
on night trains, at very reasonable rates. 

Direct connections to and from Cleveland, Buffalo. New York, 
Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburg, Washington, Kansas City, 
Denver, Omaha, Portland, San Francisco, and all points in the United 
States and Canada. 

This is the popular route with the ladies, on account of its courteous 
and accommodating train officials, and with the commercial traveler 
and general public for its comforts, quick time and sure connections. 

For any further particulars call on or address any Ticket Agent. 

H. C. PARKER, CHAS. F. DALY. 

Traffic Manager, Gen’l Pass. & Tkt. A&U 

UfPJANAPOliIB. IN0. 



THE 

Delaware 

AND 

Hudson 
Railroad. 

VHBm? DIRECT? ROUTE TO THE GREAT 

OIROMiCI lOUHTlIHS, 

Lake George, Lake Champlain, Ansable Chasm, the Adiron- 
dack Mountains, Saratoga, Round; Lake, Sharon 
Springs, Cooperstown, Howe’s Cave, and the 
Celebrated Gravity Railroad between Carbon- 
dale and Honesdale, Pa., present the 
greatest Combination of Health and Pleasure Resorts in America* 

* THE DIRECT LINE TO THE SUPERB SUMMER HOTEL 
OF THE NORTH, 

“THE HOTEL CHAMPLAIN,” 

(Three Miles South of Plattsburgh, on Lake Champlain). 


The Shortest and Most Comfortable Route 
Between New York and Montreal. 

In Connection with the Erie Railway, the most Picturesque 
end Interesting Route between Chicago and Boston. 

The only through Pullman Line. 


Inclose Six Cents in Stamps for Illustrated Guide to 

W C. YOUNC, J. W. BURDICK, 

8d Vice-President. Goal Pa as. Agent, Albany, & % 



QRAND TRUNK 


AND 

QHIQ/IUO sa QRgND TRUNK 
R/IILW/1TS. 


Form the most Popular Route to the West, 
Combining every Comfort and Luxury. 

PULLMAN AND WAGNER SLEEPERS ON ALL TRAINS. 

Solid Vestibuled Pullman 
Dining and Sleeping Car Trains 

Through from New York to Chicago without change 
Choice of route from 

NEW YORK TO 

^ NIAGARA FALLS, SUSPENSION BRIDGE, 

TORONTO, DETROIT, PORT HURON, CHICAGO 

And the West, Northwest, and Southwest via 

The Celebrated St. Clair Tunnel, 

Which connects Canada and the United States, and is the 
greatest submarine tunnel in the world. 

The Grand Trunk Railway is justly celebrated for its Fish- 
ing and Hunting Resorts, as on and contiguous to it are the 
greatest grounds in the civilized world, among them being the 

Muskoka Lakes, St. Lawrence River, Thousand 
Islands, Lake St. John Region, White 
Mountains, Androscoggin 

And many others too numerous to mention. 

For information apylv to office of Grand Trunk Railway at Boston, Mass • 
Portland, Me. ; Montreal, P. Q.. ; Toronto, Ont. ; Buffalo, N. Y. : Detroit, 

Mich., ar.d 

N. J. POWER, Gen’l Pass’r Agt., L. J. SEARGEANT, Gen’I Mang’r, 

MONTREAL.. P. Q. MONTREAL., P. Q. 

FRANK P. DWYER, E. P. Agt. C. & G. T. Ry., 

273 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 


GISMONDA. 

BY 

VICTORIEN SARDOU. 


A Novelization of the Celebrated Play, 

By A.. ID. HALL 


The New York. TTorZdsays: To “dramatize” a novel is common work; 
to “novelize” a play comparatively rare. The latest in this line is “Gis- 
momla,” in which Miss Fanny Davenport lias been so successful, and Mr. 
A. D. Hull has told the story in a very interesting manner. 

Philadelphia Press: The story is an interesting one, and with a plot 
quite out of the common. 

Portland Oregonian : A story that holds the interest. 

Denver Republican : The characters are exceedingly well depicted. 
“Gi8monda” will prove a favorite with the novel-reading public, and be- 
come one of the popular books of the season. 

Philadelphia Item : The kind of book which one sits over till he has 
finished the last word. It is a clever piece of literary work. 

New Orleans Picayune : It is needless to say, as it is Sardou’s creation, 
that it is of intense interest. 

Buffalo News : A vivid and powerful story. 

Brooklyn Eagle : The amplification into the novel is done by Mr. A. D- 
Hall, who presents a full and interesting picture of modern or rather me. 
dieval Greece. The plot is quite original. 

Milwaukee Journal : While its situations are dramatic, it is by no 
means stagy. 

Albany Argus: We have every reason to believe that the excellent 
novelization will achieve popularity. 

Boston Traveler : It has basis for great interest. 

Syracuse Herald : The “novelizator” seems to have acquitted himself 
fairly well, and to have transformed the play into a highly romantic story. 

Burlington Hawkeye : Excellent novelization, and without a dull mo- 
ment from beginning to end. 

Detroit Tribune: As the play has been a success, the novel will un- 
doubtedly prove one also. The story has a unique plot, and the characters 
are well depicted. 

Albany Times-Union : No play produced during the past year has 
made such an instantaneous and overwhelming success as that of “Gis- 
monda.” and we have every reason to believe that the excellent noveliza- 
tion will achieve the same measure of popularity. 


4j^X^WT r ^‘ !Vr ~ r " > A is No. 1 of “Drama Series,” for sale by all 
Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 26 cents, to any address, 
postpaid, by STREET & SMITH, 25-iil Rose St., New York. 


w 



OVER EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND HAKE BEEN SOLD. 


Mrs. Georgie Sheldon's 
Novels. 

These novels are copyrighted and can be had only in 
the Clover Series. Paper, 25 cents. Cloth, one dollar. 

1— Lost, a Pearle. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

2— Stella Rosevelt. Bv Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

3— Sibyl’s Influence. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

4 — Trixy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

5 — A True Aristocrat. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 

6— Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

7 — Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

8 — Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 

9 — Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

10 — Yirgie’s Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

11 — Audrey’s Recompense (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

12— Ruby’s Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

13— Edrie’s Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

14— Tina, By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

15— That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

16— Geoffrey’s Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

48— Wedded by Fate (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

55— Mona (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
postage free on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

STREET & SMITH, 

2 s to 31 Rose Street, New York. 


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